


City of Fear

by evilauthoroverlords



Category: Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossover, Fantasy, Gen, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Work In Progress, takes place in the Merlin universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2018-08-30 16:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8539987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilauthoroverlords/pseuds/evilauthoroverlords
Summary: In a land of myth and a time of magic, a mysterious paralyzation occurs in Camelot, and the knights are stumped. With no clear leads, Arther decides to summon the world's first and only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, from a neighboring kingdom. But while in Camelot, Sherlock realizes that the murders aren't the only mysteries hidden behind the city's walls.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings peasants. This here is the first duo-author story on our FF account, and we decided to combine two of our favorite BBC shows: Merlin and Sherlock.  
> Unlike some other Merlin/Sherlock crossovers where Sherlock and John use time travel to get to Camelot, in this one the characters always lived in the “land of myth and time of magic,” so it doesn't take place during any specific time in the Sherlock series. However, this does take place during Arthur’s rule and after Merlin freed the Great Dragon.  
> If you’re worried about not knowing one of the shows well enough to “get” this story, let us put your worries to rest. We have a friend who, even though she hasn’t watched all of either show, tells us she enjoys this story.  
> Notice: If you’re worried about Merlin spoilers, though, then this story might not be for you.  
> We’ll refrain from saying more, keeping in mind that this story is a mystery, and we don’t want to give anything away before you even read the first word. So, without further ado, we present chapter one!

"Sally?” called the muffled voice of a stocky young man to his wife, as he entered their two-room home from the back. He yanked the door closed, muting the sounds of the bustling Camelot street behind him.

"What is it this time, Billy?" his wife replied lightly. She was preparing their evening meal in the other room.

His footsteps clunked on the stone floor of his workshop, approaching the curtained doorway to the kitchen. He brushed past the curtain and leaned in the door frame.

“Oh, you know,” he said dismissively, his voice no longer dampened by the curtain. He fiddled with his hammer, and he caught the bright brown glance of his wife when she looked up from where she knelt by the fire. She gave him a smile that showed her large upper row of teeth.

William returned the expression but sighed deeply. He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes and down his face, fingers giving his dark stubble a scratch. Moving forward to sprawl in the wooden chair by her, he said, “Have a few last-minute orders I need to finish by the morning.” He expertly passed his hammer back and forth between his hands.

Sally pursed her lips and nodded, her curly, black hair bobbing.

“My hammering won’t keep you up, will it?”

She smirked at him. “I can hardly fall asleep without it by now.” She carried the kettle of stew to the table behind him. There was the sound of sloshing stew and clunking wooden spoons as she filled his bowl and returned to his side to press it into his hands. He caught her waist with one arm and rested his face on her side, savoring the brief moment of affection. She kissed the top of his head and took it as an opportunity to take his hammer away as if it were a little boy’s toy slingshot.

“Eat first, then work,” she ordered lightheartedly as she stepped away, hips swinging out of his reach.

William turned his attention back to his dinner and obliged to her command, spooning some food into his mouth. His teeth worked away at the tough but rich meat. “Sally, considering what you have to work with, this is delicious.”

She was facing the other direction to ladle out her own bowl. When she turned around she rolled her eyes and said, “As you said, considering what I have to work with.” She wasn’t the most humble of people, Billy knew, but she also seemed to never react well to compliments.

He decided to press on. “All the more reason for you to apply for royal chef. I’m sure you could make some even better food with what the castle has to offer.” He divided his attention between her and his food nonchalantly.

“Who said they were looking for a new one?” She leaned back against the table, full concentration on her food.

“Leon was talking about it when he brought in some armor this afternoon. Apparently, they’re having people try out the job, and they haven’t had one decent meal since their old one’s hanging.”

“Hanging!” She finally looked up.

“Apparently she was some kind of witch.”

Sally shook her head. “I swear they’re going to go crazy over that sorcery nonsense up there. It can’t be nearly as common as they make it out to be, can it?” She gestured with her spoon as she spoke.

“You can guess where I stand on that matter. I’m the one making the weapons they use to defend Camelot against it. Speaking of which…”

Sally strode over and retrieved his empty bowl, planting another kiss on his head. “Right, you better get to work.”

He stood with a grunt and picked up his hammer from the table. He paused at the curtain, but didn’t turn around. “See you in the morning, love,” he said, then passed through the doorway into his workshop.

“In the morning,” Sally returned.

* * *

 Billy worked the bellows up and down with a stiff arm and aching shoulder, spraying the ashes and smoke up at his face from the stone fireplace. His eyelids twitched and moisture welled up in his vision. When he swept his hand across his forehead, he smeared a mix of sweat and soot over his face and through his shaggy hair. The salt of his sweat stung the many singes he’d already accumulated that night.

He wielded his hammer and leaned into his work, the bent sword straightening bit by bit with every strike of his hammer. Over and over the clang, clang, clanging resonated up to the rafters of his workshop, only interrupted by the occasional shifting of ashes in the grate or rushing boom of the bellows.

Billy was already sweating so much that he hardly noticed a liquid had dripped onto his arm until it ran all the way down to his wrist. He tucked in his chin to examine his arm, and he wrinkled his nose.

A yellow stream of sappy liquid was oozing off of his arm and onto the floor. Whatever it was, it filled his nostrils with a pungency like putrid meat. He wiped at it with his other hand, and immediately the lesions on his fingers began to sting. Cursing, he wiped his hand on his shirt, his breath quickening as the burns swelled.

His tight throat let out a cough, and he looked to see if it was from the smoke. The fire was dying from his inattention, barely fuming.

The room was full of the awful stench, now, and it was making his head throb. It was what he imagined a cremation would smell like.

There was a scuffling sound behind him and he whipped around to see Sally, illuminated by the candle she was holding. She stood in the open doorway. “It’s pitch dark in here, Billy. I thought you were working.”

“I was. I got distracted.”

“By what?”

“Just some burns on my hand. Nothing to worry about.”

She stepped a bit closer, then wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

“That’s just what I was wondering.”

She was about to respond, but then her eyes shot upward. Another rush of the disgustingly warm, cloying liquid ran down Billy’s back, but he didn’t have time to look up past Sally, who seemed to be rooted in place, wide eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Something humongous, cold, and sinewy smashed onto his shoulders and pinned him to the ground. His lungs were too crushed to make any noise, the thing was so heavy, and it writhed about on his back, smooth, cold, and crushing as marble. He squirmed frantically. The breath on the back of his head sounded like the hissing of a burning log. It made his skin crawl.

More of the liquid trickled onto the back of his head and into his ears. He was barely able to squeeze out a painful cry of, “Sally! Sally!” The crushing weight and smell of rot was overtaking him.

There was an explosion of pain in his neck, and he said no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. from Queue: If you’re rereading this chapter (for whatever reason) and find it unfamiliar, that’s because Fluffy and I rewrote it, along with the second chapter. Don’t worry: the events are still the same. We just thought it no longer represented our style or skill as writers and didn’t want something less than our best to be a reader’s first impression of this story. If this is your first time reading this chapter, and your curiosity is now piqued as to what it originally looked like… y-you really don’t want to know. However, just to appease you, we won’t “keep this curiosity door locked,” to quote Dustin Henderson. We plan on posting a few chapters of “bloopers” once this story has concluded. You might find the original versions of chapters one and two among those. We’ll see.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. Fluffy here, but I speak for both of us when I thank all of you for the favorites and follows. It's like our fuuuuuuel.  
> To make what we said in the author’s note more specific, this story takes place around season four of Merlin, because Gwaine and Percival are knights in this. We need Gwaine. We have plans for him. *rubs hands together evilly* Don't worry, though. He's far too precious to kill off.  
> Queue: Tell that to BBC!  
> Fluffy: Way too soon.  
> Anyway, Arthur is king, Gwaine and Percival are knights, Kilgharrah is free, and Uther’s dead. Morgana may be evil, but she won’t really be involved in this story.  
> Now that that’s cleared up, the chapter.

Sir Leon arrived at the castle the next morning and greeted the guards who had kept watch over the weapons chamber. He looked to the place where his sword usually hung on the wall. It wasn’t there.

He remembered handing it off to the blacksmith the day before and reasoned that the man was still working on it. He stepped backward out of the doorway and pointed at one of the guards. “Did the blacksmith make any deliveries last night?”

“No, sir.”

Leon heard the clink of chain mail from down the corridor and saw a dark-stubbled man round the corner. It was Gwaine.

Leon called out to him, “No use. Billy still has our swords.”

Gwaine looked up and quickened his pace until he was a few feet away. “Really?” he asked, cocking his head.

Leon understood Gwaine’s confusion. William may not have been the most skilled blacksmith Camelot had ever hired, but he was certainly the most reliable.

“Yes,” replied Leon. “Think we should stop by his workshop?”

Gwaine shrugged, frowning. “I’ll come with you.”

* * *

 Gwaine pounded on the blacksmith’s back door for a few minutes before Leon grabbed his hand to stop him. “It’s no use.” He leaned back against the house.

“Think he’s not home?”

“Why else wouldn’t he answer the door?”

Gwaine stepped away and peeked around the side of the house. “Maybe it’s because it’s the back door?”

“We always exchange our weapons with him through the back door.”

Gwaine grunted and came back to give the door another pound.

Leon frowned. “Let’s just give him an extra day to work on them.” He turned to go.

Gwaine smacked a hand against Leon’s chest. “Hold on.”

Leon watched his friend lean in and try to peek through the boards of the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t you smell that?”

Leon inhaled. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now he said, “It’s awful.”

“It’s coming from in there.”

“Think they had a fire or something?”

Gwaine started ramming the door with his shoulder. Leon pushed him aside and pulled open the unlocked door, letting daylight stream into the room.

“Mother of...” Gwaine muttered from beside him.

As soon as Leon took in the scene, he couldn’t get it out of his head. The grey light illuminated the dust floating down from the rafters. Below was William’s dead body.

He was splayed face down with his neck torn in two places, skewing his head to an unnatural angle. His body was caved in at the torso, and he was soaked in blood and some other liquid. Leon covered his mouth and nose with his cloak, but the stale, bloody smell of the room still seized his nostrils. Besides it was another smell, one that he couldn’t quite place, but overwhelmed his senses all the same.

Gwaine shoved past him into the room and headed toward the man’s wife, who was standing upright. As he got closer, it was clear she was not going to turn her head. Her terrified eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, frozen.

Leon stayed in the doorway to let some light in. There was only one other source of light for the room, the curtained window, and he wanted as much light shed on the nightmarish scene as possible.

Gwaine looked back at Leon, eyebrows pulled back. “Let’s fetch some more people.”

* * *

 “Merlin!”

Merlin sighed, lifting up his head from where it had been resting in his book, which had proved itself a worthy pillow. “Yes?” he groaned back to Gaius, propping himself up on his elbow. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and massaged the back of his aching neck.

Merlin rolled out of bed and stood up as Gaius entered the room and clasped his hands together. “This morning, the knights found a body.”

Merlin stopped stretching and dropped his arms to his sides. His expression sunk, and his grogginess was immediately erased from his mind. “A body?”

“The blacksmith. I haven’t heard many details, but it doesn’t sound like it was a peaceful passing.”

Merlin set his jaw and mumbled something about getting more details. He rushed down the step past Gaius before turning around to pause. He was about to say something, but Gaius nodded and said, “Don’t hold up for me.”

A timid grin passed over Merlin’s determined face for a moment before he turned and burst out of the door leading to the corridor. Gaius came at his own pace after the young man, closing the door carefully after himself.

* * *

 Merlin stood with his sleeve covering his mouth as next to him Gaius spoke to Percival.

“Certainly no human could have done this. Nor any regular animal,” said Gaius gravely. “Especially considering his wife’s paralyzation.”

Merlin looked to where Sally lay stiffly on her back. She looked unnatural, with her face turned up and back lifted off of the ground, stock still. They’d been unable to pry the melted candle from her greying fingers.

Percival narrowed his eyes at Gaius. “What do you mean, regular animal?”

Gaius raised an eyebrow pointedly, and Percival had a look of grim realization on his face. “You're suggesting magic.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Percival grimaced. “Arthur won't be happy to hear that. Do you have any idea what kind of creature it could be, based on...” he trailed off, gesturing to the body before re-crossing his arms.

“Maybe a giant snake,” Merlin chimed in, his voice muffled by his sleeve.

“Snake?” Gaius asked. Merlin couldn’t tell if he was testing him or actually asking him to explain.

“Yes, going by the smell of rotting meat and the two wounds around his…” Merlin indicated his own neck but lost track of his thoughts as his eyes planted on William’s wounds.

“Around his neck,” mused Gaius, finishing Merlin’s sentence. “But snakes eat their prey, even magic ones, I’d assume. As mutilated as this man is, he’s still in one piece.”

“More or less,” added Merlin under his breath.

“So? What creature could have done this?” Percival demanded.

“I couldn’t say,” said Gaius slowly, lost in his thoughts.

* * *

 That night, a peasant named Julia woke with a start, her flinch rustling the straw mattress beneath her. The midnight streets of Camelot just outside her door were silent and still, and the rush of her breathing seemed to her to be the only noise in the world. Her mouth was dry and sticky in the chill night air, and she could almost taste the darkness in the room. She was certain she could feel it pressing in on her, settling her further into the mattress.

Then, a scrabbling noise slowly filtered into her ears, piercing the stillness of the night. It was coming from the corner of her room, from the other side of the stone wall. Every minute she lay in bed listening, the scratching increased in its impatience, along with a quiet, coarse snuffling. She thought she heard twigs snapping, and a whining like groaning wood.

She carefully rolled out of bed and crouched on the cold stone floor, her nightgown brushing in the dust. Her sharp, brown eyes were fixed on the spot in the wall where she could hear the stones crumbling away on the other side. The wall was growing thin now, and now she could hear a growling sound that blended with a semi-human whispering.

There was a pause in the frantic noises. She cautiously stretched out her hand to the place in the wall, curious.

In a burst of stone, a hand made of branches shot through the wall and grabbed hold of her wrist. She screamed and yanked herself backward, only helping the rest of the creature into the room. With a sound like snapping twigs, she broke herself free from the small, portly silhouette and dove for the door. The thing let out a broken, outraged squeal behind her and something hit her upper back with a _crack!_ sending her immediately lifeless body sprawling across the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’d like to send out our sincere thanks to anyone who’s followed us since, or even before, the previous chapter. It’s really motivating. Remember that if you have anything to say, feel free to comment, as we will wholesomely apply any constructive criticism you have to our story, and also just really enjoy hearing from you. It makes you seem more real, instead of just another number, you know?  
> Fluffy: You say that like we have untold millions following us.  
> Queue: Hey! We’re getting there.  
> To clear things up, we’ve figured out once and for all that this story would take place during the first half of season four, a little bit after Uther’s death.  
> Anyway, without further ado, the chapter you’ve all been anticipating, I am sure. Apologies for the wait.  
> Fluffy: The seven-month wait. Yeah, about that. . . Sorry guys. It’s been pretty busy.  
> Queue: Yeah. . . busy. In other words, we’ve been occupied watching Netflix and singing along to Hamilt-  
> Fluffy: Shhhhhhhh. . .

Gaius looked over the mutilated body of the servant Julia in an observant sort of way, while Merlin did everything he could to _not_ look at it, feeling his pale skin grow green. "Remarkable. . ." muttered Gaius in a strange mix of disgust and fascination.

"Yeah, _remarkable_ ," said Merlin sarcastically. Julia- or what used to be Julia- was sprawled face-down down on a table, with a plethora of wounds covering what used to be a rather healthy person. The most prominent of the gashes was on her upper back as if the killing blow had been struck from behind. Gaius had previously commented on the killer's sadistic tendencies, how he had continued slicing her even after her life had long left her body.

Gaius lowered his bushy eyebrows at Merlin. "These are quite obviously axe-inflicted wounds, Merlin. That narrows it down to a human."

"Great!" said Merlin, flashing a sardonic grin. "Now all we have to do is interview every citizen of Camelot, or perhaps even our neighboring kingdom." He wiped the grin from his face and scowled.

Gaius reassured him, "I'm sure the situation isn't _quite_ that dire."

"Yet," coughed Merlin.

"You're optimistic," Gaius said, and began to roll his eyes, then slowly nodded, "but not wrong. As we don't have any clear leads, we may need to call on an outside source."

Merlin started. "No! I'm sure we can figure it out." After all, whatever had killed and petrified the first couple clearly had been an animal; all they would need to do was assemble the knights to hunt it down. As for the second victim, well, it wasn't the first killer in Camelot; not by far.

Gaius glowered at him. "If this is a matter of your pride, Merlin, we simply don't have time to blunder about with this case. It's Camelot's citizens that are on the line."

Merlin pursed his lips. "It's not my pride!" Merlin insisted. "It's just- well, how much would we be paying this 'outside source?' Besides, I don't think it's even necessary at this point."

"We don't even know if these two deaths are related yet. We have at least one murderer on the loose."

Merlin sighed through his nose. "You're right. I'll think on it."

"It's not your decision to think on. Remember, you're only a manservant, Merlin," reprimanded Gaius, giving him a meaningful look as if to say, _You may be the greatest sorcerer to ever live, but nobody's supposed to know that._ "The only decision you'll be making today is whether or not you want to accompany me to address matters with Arthur."

Merlin's shoulders drooped. "Fine."

* * *

"Sire?"

Arthur glanced up from the scroll he was reading, admittedly glad for the distraction. Tax reports had never been one of the exciting aspects of being king. He had to restrain himself from throwing the paper to the floor when he heard Guias' voice, but he did manage to stay looking concentrated on his work.

"You may enter," Arthur said, before glancing up. "Oh. Well, thanks for asking."

"My apologies, sire, but the situation must be addressed immediately. I presume you've already been notified about the recent attacks?" Guias asked formally.

"You mean the ones-"

Merlin blurted excitedly, "You see, Arthur, this lady- a servant, Julia- was in her house, and someone came in last night, and he stabbed her thirty-seven times with an axe-"

"You _counted_ -?"

Merlin didn't wait for Arthur to finished his query. "Which means that the murderer was human because animals can't hold axes. Oh, and with the other case, I noticed this rather interesting detail, but no one asked. No one ever does. . . Anyway, there weren't any snake footprints- wait, I mean a- a _snake trail_. You know? Snake trails?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. " _Merlin_ -"

"Anyway, with that case, there was this guy- a couple, actually- and the guy was killed. By an animal. Probably. Maybe. Well, definitely. I think. Anyway, his wife- she's paralyzed. _I_ think it was a basilisk- maybe I should have mentioned that before the snake trails-"

" _Merlin_ -!"

"But, you know, that's just _my_ opinion. Anyway, we have two murderers on the loose. One is a snake. Like I said. And the other one, a. . ."

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, and almost screamed, " _MERLIN!_ "

". . . lumberjack," Merlin muttered, finishing his sentence. Arthur cast him a dark glance.

The king took a deep breath before going on. "If you cared to _listen_ , you would know that I already have someone on the case."

Merlin blinked. "What?"

"You think that I would just _sit_ here while my people were getting murdered?"

Merlin didn't reply.

Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples as he fell back into his chair. "It's _my_ kingdom, Merlin. Of course I've already been notified about all of this."

"Oh." Merlin paused. "So. . . who's on the case?" he asked, trying and failing to appear nonchalant.

"I sent a messenger to a neighboring kingdom requesting help after I heard about the first incident. You see, I'd heard at a previous gathering from a noble of that kingdom about a man who refers to himself as a 'consulting detective.' He recommended that if I ever came across any 'difficult situations' I should contact this man."

Merlin opened his mouth, but closed it to rethink his inquiry. Camelot had definitely dealt with worse problems than a snake and a murderer. Not to mention Merlin helped solve half of those problems. What made Arthur think that they needed help _now?_ Was it the snake trail- or the lack thereof? Sure, it pegged a question, but a big enough question to call in outside help? Merlin didn't think so. But he knew better than to oppose Arthur's decision.

"A consulting. . . what-now?" he finally decided to ask.

Merlin spun around, upon hearing an " _ahem_ " issue from the corner of the room. A man stepped out from behind a pillar. He had dark, curly hair, and cheekbones and a scarf to rival Merlin's own. He was dressed in clothing that suggested a noble ranking; in other words, this was no peasant. His blue-grey eyes were cold and calculating as he cast a wide glance across the room at Merlin- almost suspiciously- as if he were scanning him. Merlin swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like the discerning look in the man's eyes, as if he knew something Merlin didn't.

"Consulting _detective_ ," the man corrected as he approached the throne. Once he was abreast with Merlin he gave a slight bow to the king. "The name's Sherlock," he said in a deep tone, addressing the king, but his eyes lingering on Merlin in a furtive sidelong gaze. "Sherlock Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well now that this is up, it feels like a weight off our conscience. We can promise we’ll try to make the wait shorter for the next chapter. Finally, we've gotten to the Sherlock characters!  
> *rubs hands together* This’ll be fun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who's given this story kudos or followed it! But enough of the formalities, let's get right to it.

“I can’t believe Arthur would just sign someone up on the case like that. From another kingdom, too! How can we know we can trust him? And did you see that look in his eyes? I feel like he already knows something that we don’t, Gaius, and I’m not too sure I like that,” Merlin ranted, pacing the floor of Gaius’ chambers, floorboards thumping with every footstep.

“Sit down and have some stew, Merlin, you’ll keep the whole castle up,” said Gaius coolly. Merlin gave a huff of frustration and petulantly plopped down across from Gaius. He was steaming as much as his untouched stew, though one of the two were beginning to cool off.

“But Gaius, you _did_ see the look in his eyes, didn’t you? I bet he’s not even human. Maybe _he’s_ the murderer. Like–like that witchfinder.”

Gaius chuckled and looked up from his bowl. “Merlin.”

Merlin threw down his spoon that he’d finally picked up back into his bowl. It landed with a wet thunk, similar to his next word, “ _What_?”

Gaius raised his eyebrows, then slowly shook his head. “Merlin.”

Merlin slouched a little and set his elbows on the table. The irritated demeanor of his voice, however, was unchanged. “Yes, Gaius?” he huffed.

“Don’t be such a child. You need to stop jumping to conclusions like this. You know, this just _might_ be one of those rare situations where Camelot’s problem isn’t yours to worry about. You should be thankful this detective is working on it. You should also be glad Arthur _doesn’t_ expect you to solve all the problems around here. He doesn’t and can’t know what you’re capable of, so he is only making a reasonable decision as king.”

Merlin muttered something inaudible under his breath. At Gaius’ reprimanding glance, Merlin abruptly pushed himself out of the chair, his stew untouched. “I’m going to see if Arthur needs anything,” he announced wearily.

As the young warlock hastened out of the chambers, he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to have noticed the other man walk towards him until it was too late.

“ _Oof!_ ”

Merlin stumbled backwards, barely preventing himself from falling. When he looked up, he saw a rather short, stout man brushing off his clothes. “Excuse you,” the strange man said disdainfully before proceeding past Merlin. He put his hand on Gaius’ door to push it open, and before he knew what he was doing, Merlin’s own hand dashed out to block him.

“What are you doing?” accused Merlin,.

The man tucked in his chin and raised his eyebrows, then looked disbelievingly to an unseen person next to him before looking back at Merlin. “ _I_ am visiting the physician of this castle. What are _you_ doing?”

“Why do you need to see him?” snapped Merlin. “You don’t look ill to me.”

The man scoffed like he couldn’t believe Merlin had the nerve to ask such a thing. “ _I_ also happen to be a physician. Now, if you’d excuse me-”

Just then, Gaius opened his door to see what all the racket was about. He tilted back his head a little at the sight of the man. “How may I help you?”

“Well, I was just wondering if I could meet with a fellow physician while I am here in Camelot, but this young man here thought… Well, I don’t quite well know what he thought I was doing, but he didn’t seem too keen on letting me see you.”

Merlin glared at the man while Gaius let out a long breath. “Follow me, please.” Gaius gestured for the man to follow, and he pushed past Merlin without a second glance.

Merlin made a face at the closed door and squared his shoulders before proceeding down the hallway, leather-clad footsteps scuffing the stone floor.

* * *

Before Merlin even had a chance to shut the door to Arthur’s chambers behind him, Arthur exclaimed, “Ah, Merlin! At last. You’ll need to bring dinner up here for three tonight. I’m hosting that. . . detective and his associate.”

Merlin scoffed under his breath, both at the fact that Arthur had made it sound like _he_ ’d be the one hosting, and that Merlin would have to serve Sherlock, whom he was already beginning to hold in some sort of animosity.

“Merlin?”

“Yes, sire. How long until they get here?”

Arthur looked out the window. “Should be here any minute.”

“Right, then.” Merlin backed into the door and turned into the hallway, then loped down the stone corridors on his way to the kitchens.

* * *

When Merlin returned to Arthur’s chambers, the king was already accompanied by two men: One, the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, and the other, the man Merlin had–quite literally–run into earlier at Gaius’ door. Merlin was surprised to see him there, but didn’t let his face show it, remembering his place as a manservant.

Arthur looked up from the conversation for a brief second and said, offhandedly, “Ah, Merlin,” then gestured to the three men’s empty places at the table. As Merlin set down their plates and served them, he tried to catch Arthur’s eye, to clarify that he must have been putting on airs for the guests. All he succeeded at doing was to catch the eye of the man who he’d met at Gaius’ door for a moment, and was determined to prevent the awkward occurrence from happening again.

When Merlin was finished serving them, Arthur motioned for him to stand to the side, without uttering a word. Merlin knowingly rolled his eyes and did as he was told.

Merlin, though staring straight ahead at the stone wall opposite him, tuned in his hearing to the conversation that was going on at the dinner table.

“Sorry if the food’s not the best–our old cook had to be dismissed,” Arthur commented, seemingly uncomfortable with the silence.

Sherlock gave a grunt of acknowledgment, but didn’t comment regarding the cook. “Three victims, correct? Two dead, and two separate attacks?” Sherlock said. _Straight to business, then._

“That is correct.”

“And one petrified.” He said it as a statement, not a question. Arthur unnecessarily responded with a nod.

Ignoring his food, Sherlock placed his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. John glared at him in disapproval, but Sherlock didn’t seem to, or more likely _pretended_ not to, notice.

“So aside from the time that the murders occurred, what makes your knights believe they’re connected?”

There was a pause as Arthur stuttered for a moment and uttered a weak, “Well…”

Merlin withheld a smirk. There wasn’t any other reason.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair with a rumbling sigh. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

Arthur bristled. “That’s why we called upon your services. The sooner you can investigate, the better.”

“Oh, I already am.”

Arthur leaned forward a bit over his meal. “Already are? Who let you on the crime scenes?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes once again in a silent curse against the world’s incompetence. “What I meant, sire, was that I’m already on the case. I’m never off duty.”

The man hardly paused before leaping to his feet. “Come along, John.” He said, addressing his hurriedly eating companion with his speech but not his gaze, which he directed out the window. “I predict we can make it to at least one of the crime scenes before sundown.”

Arthur gaped at Sherlock, then glanced at the man’s untouched plate. “Wait,” the king blurted, “will you not finish your meal?”

Sherlock sniffed and brusquely stepped out of the door. John mumbled a “thank you” and scurried after him.

Arthur’s chamber door slammed shut and he winced. Merlin cautiously moved forward to clear the table, preparing himself for a tirade.

When none came, Merlin glanced up at his master. He was staring at his plate, a vein at his temple pulsing. When Merlin carefully reached across the table to remove the dish, Arthur’s fist slammed down onto the table.

Merlin jumped somewhere around ten feet in the air–or at least felt like he did–and his fingers that had been grasping the edge of Arthur’s plate flew upwards as well, capsizing the platter and sending its contents sprawling onto the king’s lap.

Merlin scrunched his eyes shut and stepped back quickly. He heard Arthur’s chair slide back, and looked up to see him brushing the last bits of food from his pants.

“... Sire?”

Arthur straightened his back. “You’re dismissed, Merlin,” he muttered. Merlin paused, still looking questioningly at the king, but when Arthur darted him a dark look, he didn’t stall in hurrying himself from the room.

As Merlin scampered out, he heard Arthur mutter something about, “Not supposed to go like this...” from behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! We know this wasn’t the most exciting of chapters, but we have a lot brewing for the upcoming events, so stay tuned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy: Do we get a medal for updating in less than a month?  
> Queue: I doubt it, since it’s only special because we normally don’t update in less than a month.  
> Fluffy: Do we at least get the golden “you tried” star?  
> Queue: I don’t know, did we try?  
> Fluffy: I tried. . .  
> Queue: Where is this author’s note going? This is what happens when we don’t have anything to say.  
> Fluffy: *clears throat*
> 
> Thank you all for your patience-
> 
> Queue: Wait but we actually don’t need to say that this time.  
> Fluffy: Whoa.
> 
> Here, read this. *sweats* Happy new year!
> 
> Queue: Better?  
> Fluffy: Than 2016, hopefully.  
> Queue: *knocks on wood*

****In a small village on the outskirts of Camelot, a young man named Garman blinked his eyes open.

 _Tonight is the night._ That was the first thought that ran through his head; he could feel it in his bones. _Tonight is the night I’ll finally hit something with my spear._

He didn’t even have the chance to sit up when his younger brother, Edgar, stood up from his cot across the room, sudden excitement etched all over his face—his utterly handsome, bearded face that Garman envied so harshly.

“I can’t believe you slept so long,” said Edgar, “You said around noon that you were just going to lie down, and now the sun’s going to start setting any minute.”

Garman bolted upright and looked outside. The sun wasn’t near to setting, but he was still just as eager to get outside as his brother. “Why didn’t you wake me up earlier, Edgar?”

Edgar shrugged. “We made a lot of progress yesterday, but we _did_ practice all day. I thought you might be tired, as was I. I only woke up awhile ago, too.” The lanky boy glanced out the window. “Anyway, you ready?”

Garman snorted, throwing off his blankets. “Born ready.”

Immediately, Edgar flinched away, covering his face with his hands. “Put on some pants! Nobody wants to see that,” he said, laughing.

Garman chuckled and quickly pulled on his clothes, then rushed past Edgar and out of their room, snatching a roll that his mother had left out for dinner and popping it into his mouth before loping out the door. Edgar rushed after him out of the cottage, grabbing some ten spears from the side of the house. He then awkwardly jogged after his brother as he balanced the spears in his arms.

They ran to the back garden, Edgar skidding to a stop and taking a deep breath as he gazed at the trees. A majority of them were deeply scarred and missing half of their bark, except for one single middle tree. At the center of its clear bark lay a knot with a deep indent where Edgar landed his spears without fail.

Despite the fact that Edgar was only fifteen years of age, it seemed that he’d been hitting that tree in that exact knot ever since he’d escaped the womb. Edgar had never missed, not once, even as a child. It had been the talk of his father for weeks, the first time Edgar had vaulted a spear at age five—and hit his mark, at that.

Garman was a whole nother matter. The trees surrounding his were covered in indents from Garman’s attempts, and his targeted one seemed to be the only one still unscathed. All of the marks on it were from blows that had glanced off the trunk, and Garman chuckled when he looked up and saw a spear stuck in its branches, impossibly high up. How he’d managed to do that and not hit a silly little knothole, he couldn’t imagine.

Oddly enough, Garman had had years more practice than his younger brother, to whom he was five years his senior, but the bullseye evaded Garman every time. Despite this fact, both Edgar and Garman remained optimistic, practicing every day until Garman made some sort of progress. And although Edgar was Garman’s competition, it only served to motivate him. Garman couldn’t remember a time in his life when his brother had deliberately discouraged him.

What Garman _could_ remember, however, was how ecstatic both he and his brother had felt the first time his spear had met its mark. He remembered it so vividly, in fact, that it seemed like only yesterday—and that might have been because it _had_ been yesterday. Nevertheless, he had immediately asked his father to summon one of the knights to their village upon this momentous occasion, knowing that when they saw his skills, they’d never be able to refuse him a position in the knights of the round table.

Garman’s reminiscing faded away, and he began to stare down the tree that was now dead in front of him, some twenty feet off. He looked it straight in the knothole—the one he’d managed to hit yesterday. He gripped his spear, trying to remember how it had felt when he’d thrown it that time.

He heard a dull thud to his right. It was the sound of Edgar’s spear hitting his tree’s knot, square in the center. Edgar glanced towards his brother expectantly, and Garman didn’t hesitate to throw his own. The spear glanced off a sapling and buried itself at the roots of his target tree, its quivering, wooden body taunting him.

Edgar shrugged and picked up another spear from the pile. “Can’t get them all.”

“ _You_ can,” Garman muttered. He snatched another spear, bent his elbow back, and let it sail over his shoulder towards the target. It clattered against the tree behind it.

It was going to be another long evening.

* * *

 

Julia’s room was bloody, to say the least. Splashes of the substance were rubbed on every wall, none more so than the wall next to the bed—not to mention the table, whose wood was soaked in dark splashes of crimson and brown, suggesting a scuffle. The sound of buzzing flies filled the room.

It was the bloodied footprints on the floor that caught Sherlock’s initial attention, however. He knelt down to peer at them, and traced them with his fingertips. They resembled round, uneven hoof-marks. Sherlock pushed his cloak out of the way so that he could shuffle, half crouched, to look at where whatever had broken in had entered. The cobbles had been scratched away, as if they had been dug out. He pried up a stone that was still in the wall and examined it, bringing it inches before his eyes, then a bit further. “Look here, John,” he said, passing it back to Watson, who stood a few feet behind him. “Look at it, tell me what you see,” he instructed with a flourish of his hand.

As John peered at the stone in his palm, Sherlock stood, located wooden-handled knife in a drawer, then approached his assistant and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“It’s not very smooth, or at least anymore. Very scuffed.”

“Precisely. Now give it back to me.” Sherlock put out his hand and John laid the rock atop his pale, outstretched fingers.

Sherlock rolled the stone so it was between his forefinger and thumb, then pocketed it. He then scanned the ground and picked up another rock, one that had fallen out to create the entrance. He dropped that specimen back onto the ground, and then located and discarded three others before settling on one. This one he rubbed with his thumb. “This stone, John, is one that is unscratched. You comprehend that?”

“Yes, Sherlock, I am capable of understanding that the bloody rock isn’t scratched.”

Sherlock looked down his nose at him. “No, I mean do you understand that the one I passed to you had been scratched by the intruder, and this one was not.”

“Oh. I do now.”

“Good. Well,” he turned back to the stone and scraped the metal side of the knife across it, “what I am trying to gather here is what the intruder used to scratch the stones in the wall away. It might give us some insight on who, or what, did it.”

Sherlock made two other marks on the stone, one with the wooden end of the instrument, and one with his nail. From his pocket, he procured the other stone and held them side by side in his palm. He held them out between himself and John for both of them to see.

“You see that the wooden scratch marks match those on the stone scratched by our intruder?”

John nodded, seeing no reason to challenge his friend.

“This means that whatever was used to scrape away that wall was wooden, whether it was a tool or a body part of some creature. Now, something else you might have noticed,” said Sherlock, pointing behind him, “is that that hole is very small. Hardly big enough for a child to crawl through, though I’ve already ruled out a child because of the brutality of this crime.”

John shuddered slightly.

“So what we’re looking for is a small creature that is able to wield an axe and has hooves. Possibly one that can inflict paralyzation.”

John nodded and blinked twice. Sherlock could tell that his lecture was barely getting through to his companion. This was the second crime scene they’d visited, and the investigation had bled into the morning, and then the afternoon, and now another evening, judging by the fading sunlight that streamed through the rafters above them. John must have been exhausted and famished, especially after spending hours discovering next to nothing at the previous crime scene.

Sherlock had been just as disappointed by the last crime scene. All he’d been able to deduce was what he already knew, which was that it had been a basilisk, despite the lack of—what had that manservant called it? Ah, right— _snake trail_. Perhaps the trail had been walked over, or blown by the wind, or been too wide to be identified as anything. It irritated the consulting detective, but not enough to discourage him or for him to doubt himself.

Sherlock directed his attention to the body of the servant Julia, and opened his mouth to breath through it. The body was already beginning to reek—no, not just beginning. Deadpan, Sherlock leaned in to peer at what had been identified as the death blow, singling it out among to countless other lesions that covered her body.

It was a deep gash in her upper back, far enough up to go halfway up her neck. The wound was parallel to her spine, which had been broken with the strike, and the injury must have been delivered from directly behind. The way Julia was sprawled over the table made Sherlock assume that she had been standing when she’d received the hit.

“Long arms…” he murmured, imagining something small enough to fit through the hole in the wall able to reach that far up on Julia’s back, even with an axe.

Sherlock stepped back a moment to get a whiff of fresher air, though none of the air in the room was free of the reeking smell of rotting corpse and metallic blood. Once composed, he leaned in again, this time bringing up a finger to pull open the wound.

Brushing away maggots, he noticed a near-black spot on the inside of the laceration, and prodded it with his finger, then the flesh around it. Something black and the size of his thumb practically oozed from the wound and fell to the floor with a soft splat, leaving a crimson, wrinkly hole where it had been inside her skin. Sherlock wiped the gore from his fingers on his trousers, and stooped to examine the object. His brow furrowed. The object resembled the slimy head of a snake.

The movement had managed to draw the attention of Sherlock’s exhausted companion, who was soon kneeling at Sherlock’s side. “A snake head?”

“I know. It’s strange.”

“Can you make any sense of it?”

“Not at the moment.”

That did not sound like a good sign to John; if Sherlock didn’t know what it was, who would?

* * *

  _T_ _wigs snapped under her paws, but she didn’t feel them. Nor did she worry about whether or not the two young men who were some twenty yards off would hear her. She would strike early if needed._

 

_ She was thankful for the cover of darkness and the night vision in two out of her three pairs of eyes. The ram head in her side let out a me-eh and her paws kneaded the ground, but the men didn’t seem to have heard, being preoccupied in celebrating the shorter one’s success. _

 

Useless goat, _ she thought.  _ If you ruin this for me…

 

_ She shut down the worried thoughts. Her sister would be avenged, and as for Sherlock Holmes… Well, who in their right mind would think that a murder from a beast in this tiny village would be related to an attack from an entirely different one in Camelot? _

 

Sherlock Holmes might not be in his right mind. 

 

_ She reminded herself how effortlessly and unsympathetically he’d doomed her and her sister to a life of shame. He hadn’t— _ no one _ had even  _ attempted _ to sympathize with her sister for finding someone other than that cruel lump of a husband she’d been . . .  _ assigned _ to. _

 

_ A rattling growl emerged from her muzzle just thinking about it, but she caught herself and focused on the men, trying to tone out the thuds of the taller one’s spears hitting the tree and hone in on their positions. She shifted her weight and clenched her jaw, imagining bones grinding between her teeth, still getting used to this form. _

 

_ As she scanned the scene and waited impatiently for either of them to leave, she heard a rattle of chainmail, and her eyes darted to a movement in the trees. A dark-haired knight approached the brothers. _

 

_ She kneaded the dirt and roots at her feet and narrowed her eyes.  _ Complications…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s gettin’ spoopy up in here, kids.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to John Hurt.

Merlin, in something of a temper, briskly walked down the cobblestone streets of Camelot, irritated that he hadn't found Holmes and his associate at the blacksmith's. He slowed his pace when he neared the servant Julia's abode, one of many of the one-roomed, stone shacks assigned to Camelot's servants. He pushed open the wooden door.

Sherlock quickly stood to face him, John following a few seconds later. Merlin tilted his head to look at the spot of ground that he and John had been kneeling around, but saw nothing.

"What were you looking at?" asked Merlin, pointing.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and glanced behind him. "Oh," he rumbled, "Nothing."

Merlin thought the man's smile looked ingenuine. Sherlock looked uncomfortable with the expression, as if he hadn't used it a lot. Merlin squinted his eyes but didn't press the matter, accepting the exchange as more proof to be wary of the man.

"I assume you have something you want to talk to us about?" Sherlock seemed eager to get back to his investigation.

"Yes. I wanted to say that Arthur seemed very put-out after your meal with him, and I wanted to recommend that you don't get on the bad side of, well, of the _king_."

Sherlock looked down his nose at Merlin. "That all?"

"Well-"

"Because I have something I'd like to ask _you_."

Merlin didn't say anything, struggling to remain polite as ever.

Sherlock shifted his weight, seemingly uncomfortable from standing in one position for so long. "I was wondering if you know of a sort of mythical creature that resembles a black snake, except only about the length of one's head. Perhaps with a tendency to burrow into people's skin?"

Merlin hesitated. "Why would I know anything about mythical creatures?"

Sherlock withdrew his hand from his pocket and rubbed his nails with the pad of his thumb. His eyes did not avert from Merlin's. "I only assumed that you might because you live with the… court physician. Gaius, was it?"

Merlin nodded slowly. "I might be able to think of something. But what might this have to do with the murders?"

"Oh, nothing. I was only wondering." Sherlock suddenly concentrated on his thumb as it moved back and forth across his nails.

Merlin squinted his eyes and did not speak for a beat. "What you described sounds to me like a fomorroh."

"Oh? What do those do?" Sherlock's eyes suddenly locked with Merlin's.

Merlin shrugged, trying to break the tension, and spoke to outweigh the ringing in his ears, "Like you said, burrow into people's skin. They are generally enchanted, so whoever is planted with one is forced to perform some sort of goal. They don't rest until they've completed the task or until the creature is either removed or killed."

"It sounds like you have a lot of experience with these creatures."

"...You could say that."

Sherlock clucked his tongue. "Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Since you seem to know so much about mythical creatures-"

"Only what Gaius has told me," Merlin assured the detective.

"Right. Well, what might you know about a hooved beast, small enough to fit through that hole, perhaps possessing wooden features, able to wield an axe-"

"Sounds like a leshy."

"A… leshy, you say?"

Merlin silently cursed himself, realizing that he was not only giving too much information about mythical creatures, but he was giving that information to Sherlock, no less. He nodded once, reluctantly.

"And leshies-"

"Leshiye," corrected Merlin.

John, who Merlin had almost forgotten was in the room, butted in, "Hold on, you say you only knowing about these from listening to Gaius, and yet you know the exact plural form?"

Merlin cursed himself again. He looked at John from the corner of his eyes. "Yes," he said, curtly.

John muttered something about, "Must be talkative…" and Merlin turned his head to shoot him a glare.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "These _leshiye_ , as you called them, are they able to inflict paralyzation?"

"Not that I know of," said Merlin, but his brain jumped to something else. From what he knew of leshiye, they were able to shapeshift, so if one had turned into a basilisk… And that would explain the lack of snake trail-

"A shame," came Sherlock's voice, interrupting Merlin's thoughts. "Well, that leaves me with one more question. There appears to have been a lot of struggling on Julia's part, if the blood on the walls are anything to go by. What did the neighbors say they heard?"

"The… neighbors, sir?"

"Yes, neighbors," Sherlock darted him a glance, "You know, the people living on either side-"

"I know what a neighbor is." Merlin guise of decorum snapped and he gave Sherlock a dark look.

"What were you asking me to clarify, then?"

"Well, it's only that they _haven't_ said anything."

"You mean you haven't interrogated them." It was more of a statement than a question.

Merlin felt a lump of wounded pride swell up in his chest. "I only said they haven't said anything."

"So you _did_ interrogate them?"

Merlin stuck out his chest, "Not yet."

Sherlock's hand flew to his forehead. "For the love of…" he muttered, before going on, "Where might I find them? They're not still living next to here, I hope-"

"We're not barbarians, Mister... _Consulting Detective_. We relocated everyone living on this street to open rooms elsewhere."

"So you've lost track of those living directly next to Julia then, I presume."

Merlin clenched his fist and smiled. "No, _actually_. By _elsewhere_ I meant on a specific street nearer to the castle than here. We haven't been able to interrogate them yet since your arrival, only relocate them."

"So instead of standing around here talking, we should be interrogating these people, no? No need for John and I to hinder your progress any further." Sherlock started to turn around.

Merlin paused, his mind racing to differentiate Sherlock's sarcasm and true opinions. "Yes, we should-"

Sherlock was already stooped by the body again and had to redirect his attention back to Merlin to say, "My bad, by we, I meant you and John. I'm not quite finished here yet." He gave a negligent wave of his hand.

John let out a sigh and cast a quick, knowing eye-roll in Sherlock's direction, but didn't argue with his friend. He proceeded to walk out the door, only to pause to glance behind him at Merlin. "Coming?"

* * *

Night had fallen by now, and the decreased visibility in no way aided Garman's aim. He felt like the tree was not only getting covered by darkness, but by some unassailable shield. Only the shield was there in the daylight, too.

The floor of the woods by the distant tree was littered with the shafts of spears, most sticking out of the ground at various angles, and some lying pathetically— _tauntingly—_ on their sides. Edgar, despite the darkness, was still managing to hit his target.

Garman let out a long, frustrated sigh in honor of the long, frustrating day. The knight was supposed to have arrived by now, but if he came now and saw Garman's lack of skill, it'd only bring shame to his family. The knights would never consider him again, and maybe not even his brother in the future, which is something Garman dreaded even more. He couldn't stand to let his failures drag his brother down along with him.

"C'mon, brother, I know you'll get the next one!"

Garman raised his eyebrows and glanced over at his brother, but only was able to lift his eyes to his brother's knees. Even Edgar's voice sounded strained. Nonetheless, Garman held out his hand, catching the spear that Edgar tossed him. _At least I can catch all right,_ Garman thought hopefully. _But catching won't get me a seat at the round table._

With a deep breath, Garman arched his arm back and let the spear sail over his shoulder. This time it embedded itself in the tree behind the target.

"Hey, that's not bad!"

Garman whipped around and cursed himself for being startled, somehow surprised to see the knight jogging towards him, even though he'd been anticipating the sight all day. An acidic bubble of excited fear burned in his stomach, and his head suddenly pounded with a dread that almost overpowered his hope, but not quite.

Garman had trouble staying rooted in place, but by the time he'd sorted out that it'd probably be more polite to walk out and meet the knight, the man was already standing in front of him. Garman took note of his fair amount of scruff and long hair that would probably get him kicked out of any other knight group, now that he was up close, and identified him as Sir Gwaine almost immediately.

The knight talked before he could. "Hey! Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too. I-"

Garman started to hold out his hand, but Gwaine's attention had naturally switched to Edgar, who was standing a few feet behind Garman, unthrown spear in his hand.

"I was watching from a distance as I walked up. I assume you're Garman?" asked Gwaine, holding out his hand to shake Edgar's.

Edgar's slight smirk was immediately crushed under a frown. He glanced at his brother, and Garman gave him a very small smile that didn't reach his eyes before looking at the ground.

"I'm Garman's younger brother, Edgar," he said, bluntly. He nodded in Garman's direction. "He's the one you're here for."

Garman could feel a blush creeping around his collar. Gwaine shrugged.

"Oh. My bad. So," Gwaine began, clapping his hands together and he spun around to face Garman, "let's see your spear skills." Gwaine stepped back and waited for Garman to throw.

Garman took a deep breath. This was it. He was about to achieve his lifelong dream—or not. He thought of his father, brother, and his uncountable hours of practice. Then, he closed his eyes and cleared his mind.

Edgar approached him and transferred a spear into his fist. Garman looked at him and for a moment they locked eyes and smiled at each other without saying a thing. Then Edgar backed away.

It was time. With a steady hand, Garman bent back his elbow. After praying silently to the gods, Garman stared at the target and narrowed his eyes.

He let the spear fly.

* * *

"So, you were gone on the night of the attack?"

Julia's neighbor, a pleasant old lady who smelled distinctly of candle wax, nodded in response to John's question, the skin around her chin jiggling. "And I'm grateful I was, too. My daughter had just given birth to a beautiful baby boy—his name's Charles, you know, after my dear husband. Well, I had left to visit her. Julia—oh, poor girl, she was so sweet. Well, right up until those last couple of weeks. You know, I heard from my late aunt once, bless her, that sometimes people can sense when their end is coming, so they get all nasty. Julia was so jumpy—Oh, I feel just terrible for snapping at her when she stepped on my flowers that time..."

"Excuse me, miss," John finally piped up, taking advantage of her pause, "but what was that? About Julia being unlike herself? What did she do?" John shifted in his seat as Merlin tried for an encouraging smile.

"Oh, it was the strangest thing, I'll tell you that. Sometimes when I was watering the old marigolds, I would see her looking at me through her window. Before, she would always smile and wave at me, or ask if I needed help—I never did, mind you—but the last couple days she just… she would just stare. And there was none of her old liveliness in her eyes. When I waved or asked if she was okay, she would just shut the curtains and I would see her shadow pacing across. I thought it was the strangest thing, for her to be so rude. But now…" The lady sniffled.

Merlin cleared his throat. "Miss, did Julia happen to mention anything to you during those days? Anything about a—a goal, or something she wanted to get done?"

The lady's eyes grew distant. "Oh, I don't know… My memory used to be real sharp, you know. But age has its downsides." She sighed. "But, well, now that you mention it... Well, Julia had asked me if I get very close to the king at my job—I help my husband make candles for the castle, you see—and I told her-"

"Was this before or after she'd started acting strangely?" John interrupted.

"Oh, I'd say after. Anyway, I told her no, that me and Charles never delivered the candles. Only make them, you see. It's a boy… oh, what's his name? Well, anyway, I told her that we don't ever get to go near the castle. Poor girl, she helped with laundry up there, but she must have never seen the king. At first, I thought she might fancy the king a little—I hear he's such a handsome young man—and I told her, now what was it I said? Ah, yes. I says, 'At least you're in the castle-"

"Who did you say delivered the candles?" John asked.

"Oh, I don't know his name. Just some little boy. Anyway, I said to her-"

"Please, miss, it would really be helpful if we knew this little boy's name." Though John was good at hiding it, Merlin could hear the frustration in his voice.

"And, sir, I've told you: I can't remember. Let me finish my story. Julia-"

"Miss, I think you've given us plenty of information already, and we'll be on our way," John stood halfway up.

"Young man, while you're in _my_ house, drinking _my_ tea, you'll listen to _my_ story. Now sit down and let me finish," the woman said, surprisingly feisty.

Merlin and John shared a glance, for once both in silent agreement, before John sank back into his chair reluctantly.

"Now, as I was saying," the old lady said, the calm raspiness returning to her voice, "I said to Julia, 'At least you're _in_ the castle. I'm sure you'll find some way to see the king.' And she said, 'Yes, miss.' And I said, 'You know, Julia, if you don't tell a soul, I could give you some candles and you could go up there to his chambers and tell anyone who tries to stop you that you're just the new candle deliverer. As long as you come back and tell me what he looks like, this'll be our little secret.' And she seemed to like that idea quite a lot, so I gave her some nice big yellow candles and she made out to deliver them that night. But the next morning… Well… That was the morning that they found her… found her..." The old lady sniffled and wiped her eyes.

Merlin nodded. "Thank you, miss. You've helped us a lot."

She nodded wordlessly, seeming to be overcome with emotion.

John and Merlin got up, shuffled for a moment undecided on what to do, then left the room since it seemed like the best idea to give her some time alone.

Upon exiting into the fresh air, John let out a long breath. "Camelot's citizens are… interesting," he observed mildly.

Merlin huffed. "Thanks. I think."

John nodded. "I'm going to get back to Sherlock. Share with him what we just learned."

Merlin hesitated, still distrustful of Sherlock and his eccentricity, because he reminded him of other people who had come to Camelot and hadn't turned out to be who they said they were. But Merlin decided to give John a chance. He seemed like a reasonable person, and Merlin had never been the type to not give someone a second chance.

"Hold on," said Merlin. "You know what she was talking about in there, don't you?"

John nodded once. "The fomorroh."

Merlin squinted his eyes. "You two found one on Julia. That's why he asked."

John nodded again.

"Why didn't he want me to know?"

John chuckled for a moment. "Sherlock is… an interesting fellow. But he's my friend, and I don't question his reasons. They might not be conventional, but they're brilliant." John paused for a moment before saying, "But don't tell him I said that."

Merlin smiled, thinking of Arthur. "I know what you mean."

Arthur might have always had a clear motivation for everything, but he also saw everything in black and white—something Merlin couldn't say for himself.

"Well, we obviously need to search the king's quarters sometime; try and figure out why Julia needed to get up there," stated John.

Merlin nodded. "Tonight?"

"I doubt he would like that, or at least I would be unwelcome," John said.

"Especially after your meal with him."

John chuckled. "Sherlock would want to go anyway, so let's plan on the morning. See you then?"

"Yes, I will, sir-"

"Call me John."

"All right, John. Good night."

John nodded and stepped away, back in the direction of the crime scene that Sherlock was probably still investigating.

Merlin smiled at the man's back before turning to go to Gaius'. He'd decided that John, at least, wasn't such a bad person after all.

* * *

Garman watched the spear sail through the air, graze the side of the tree with a scratching sound, and plant itself somewhere in the bushes beyond.

He felt himself die inside as he heard Gwaine suck in a breath next to him. "That's, um, well—nerves? Do you want to try again?"

Garman exchanged a look with Edgar, who he could tell was struggling to meet his gaze but gave a small nod of encouragement. Garman looked back towards Gwaine, who shrugged and raised his eyebrows. Garman suddenly felt like he was being treated like a child and clenched his fists. Slowly, he bent down to pick up another spear. "Yeah, I guess…" he said, steadying his voice.

Don't screw up, he chanted to himself as he bent back his elbow, fingers tightening on the shaft of the spear. He heard Edgar's intake of a breath as it sailed out of his hand and actually hit the tree. It didn't hit in the target, but Garman couldn't help but feel optimistic—or maybe that was an understatement, because he felt like he could soar into the air right then and there with relief.

Garman took a deep breath to calm himself. He was getting closer. All he needed was one more try, and he knew he would get it.

As he'd predicted, Gwaine asked, "How about one more try?"

With his confidence renewed, Garman held out his hand and didn't even glance over as Edgar tossed him another spear. It bounced off his hand but he caught it again before it hit the ground, cursing himself to the depths for trying to show off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edgar give him a small thumbs up and grin.

Garman tensed his muscles, drawing back his hand as his eyes fixed on the bullseye of the target. He slowed his breath, feeling it fill up his lungs, but before he was able to completely grasp what he was doing, his muscles decided to throw the spear at full force. His mouth gaped open as it shot diagonally through the air, past the tree, and further into the bushes than he'd gone all day.

He snapped his mouth shut to keep his teeth from chattering and felt his head pound.

Gwaine let out a small sigh. "Look, maybe-"

A thin hissing noise like searing meat met their ears first. Then, an explosion of sound emerged from the bushes. It was a deep, guttural roar—like a bear, but amply more intimidating and majestic.

Garman heard the metallic sound of a sword being drawn from where Gwaine stood, and stood there in shock as an enormous shadowy form bounded out of the bushes towards them, the shaft of a spear sticking out of its side. It was too dark to see it clearly, but that somehow made it even more terrifying. Garman felt his legs lock in place as he saw Edgar kneel down next to him and begin to look frantically around in the grass and dirt that was invisible under the cover of night.

Garman snapped out of his daze and rushed to his brother's side. "What are you looking for?"

The loud noise of a goat's bleat pierced the night air and Garman shuddered at the peculiarity of the noise amongst the clanking of claws and horns against iron.

"A spear! Help me; we have to help the knight," his brother's voice was strained with fear.

The sounds of the fray between man and beast were nearing where they knelt, and Garman's heart pounded so hard he imagined it bursting.

Suddenly, the sound of a hissing snake was right by him and he stifled a scream. He looked up to see the silhouette of a gigantic snake with a flat head hovering before him.

He tried to punch at it, but it evaded his fist, slithering through the air. He shuddered.

Suddenly, the beast roared and he saw Edgar hold up a spear. "You found one!" he called out.

"From its side," Edgar grunted as he began slashing at the beast's side and the goat's head that protruded from it.

Garman scrambled to his feet just in time to see the goat's head swing around to ram its horns into Edgar's torso. His brother let out an agonized yell and fell to the ground, clutching his ribs.

"Edgar!" bellowed Garman as he stepped forwards, but the beast turned from its combat with Gwaine so that he was face to face with a lion head and its atrocious grimace. Its growl crackled in its throat as it lurched towards him. He felt a fiery pain blossom in his left shoulder and heard the crack of bone. His senses immediately started to close off as the pain consumed him, then was jerked back to reality when the wound began to sear with a burning sensation, the lion's jaws still clamped around his shoulder.

The beast shook its head and flung him through the air and he hit a tree with a hard thud, then landed on the ground on his left side with another jarring burst of pain. He was barely able to roll over onto his back. When he attempted to lift his head, stars consumed his vision and he dropped it back against the dirt, causing it to pound even more. He heard the monster roar, and flames consumed the darkness for a moment before an orange light settled into the scenery. The popping sound of burning wood filled the air, along with the stifling smell of smoke. The flames' orange glow flickered, making the shadows of the trees dance wildly. When the beast reared up onto its hind legs and bellowed with all three of its heads at the same time, its enormous shadow seemed to reinvent the night as it cast its darkness all around.

As he fought to stay conscious in the now sweltering heat, Garman heard his brother screaming, a sound that made his stomach twist. Garman's eyes twitched back open and he struggled to lift his head again, muscles trembling.

In the wavering firelight, he saw the snake retracting back from Edgar as his brother fell onto the ground, terrifyingly limp and no longer screaming. His silence was somehow more sickening than his screams had been.

Gwaine swiped at the beast with his sword, slashing across the lion's shoulder. The lion roared with pain as both the snake and goat turned their attention to the knight. Gwaine spun his sword around in his hands as he jabbed at the beast's chest, but it was too fast. The snake swung forward, but instead of striking Gwaine, it swiped under his legs, causing him to trip forward.

Gwaine didn't get back up.

The beast glanced around, swooping its lion head back and forth in broad sweeps, before running off back into the woods, paws and hooves thundering over the ground, its breath heavy and wet. Garman struggled to his feet but then fell back to the base of the tree.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw a knight in full armour bending over Gwaine, seemingly inspecting him before grabbing him under the arms and beginning to drag him off. Garman attempted to call out, but his voice stuck in his burning throat like he was choking on something spicy. He realized the air was filled with smoke, but he felt his eyelids drooping and was unable to stop it.

He welcomed the blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter, but things are heating up, no?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone cares, we have a specific episode that this takes place after now. It’s after A Herald of a New Age, to explain Gwen’s absence. This’ll be the last time we change this, we swear.

A whimper passed Garman’s lips as the pulsating pain in the left side of his body was regained along with his consciousness. He felt small, firm hands gripping him under each arm, and grass and dirt slid underneath him in, moving in lurches. He was being heaved along the ground. His head lolled back and forth with every pull, and he groaned again. There was a smell of smoke lingering in the air, along with the heavy scent of body odor.

Finally, he was gingerly lowered down and in his daze he heard someone kneel beside him at his right side. He was yet to open his eyes.

Fingers at his hairline. He noticed that he was drenched in sweat as they moved across his forehead, catching in his sticky hair.

“Garman?” came a voice. It sounded far-off, but he recognized it. He would have recognized it anywhere.

He worked his jaw, his tongue rasping against the roof of his mouth and catching on his teeth as saliva started to cover it. Swallowing the dryness was like eating dirt, but he gulped until he was able to say, “Amice?”

His eyes fluttered open along with the word. The concerned face he saw hovering above his head answered his question.

Amice was Edgar and Garman’s best and only childhood friend of their little village. She was between their ages, so Edgar had never been without a friend. Garman, however, being the first of his generation in the village, had spent the first three years of his life as an only child and had appreciated her birth probably more than her parents had. From that day forward, they’d been fast friends, and even when Edgar had come along three years later, he’d only served to add another dynamic to the trio they then made. Garman had never told Amice just how grateful he was for her steadfast friendship, even when Edgar’s superior traits had begun to show over Garman’s own.

“Thank God,” Amice breathed, letting her cheek fall onto his chest. He felt the added weight on his lungs as he inhaled.

He breathed like that for a few moments, trying not to think about his arm; trying not think about—

“Edgar,” she said, lifting herself up suddenly. “Oh, Garman, he…”

Garman held his breath. “He what?”

Garman watched Amice swallow and look somewhere to the left of where Garman lay. “Let me help you up.”

* * *

 

Merlin languidly watched the flecks of dust drift around in a beam of sunlight that had planted itself in the center of the round table. He stood in the corner as Arthur, his knights, John, and Sherlock had a meeting. As he looked around at each of their faces, they didn’t seem too eager to be there, either.

Arthur sighed. “Do any of you have any objections on the matter of Gwaine being the one to find a replacement for our head chef who was executed?”

“Why was she executed, again?” asked Leon.

“Someone witnessed her using magic.”

Leon grunted in acknowledgement.

“So, no objections, then?”

The room was stiflingly silent.

“Good. Then Gwaine, you’ll. . .” Arthur’s eyes scanned the knights’ faces, looking for one in particular. “Where _is_ Gwaine?”

Merlin frowned. Despite Gwaine, being, well, _Gwaine_ , he had never failed to attend a meeting before. Although he had been late in the past, it wasn’t like Gwaine to not show up. The knights’ eyes lifted up as they glanced around at one another. “Probably out galavanting somewhere,” said one of them. There were several agreeing chuckles.

“Last I saw him,” droned Sherlock from one end of the table, “which was last night, just before curfew, I saw him being carried by one of you lot to the bar.”

There was muttering for a few moments as the knights figured out who it had been. Finally, Percival spoke up. “Whoever it was, it wasn’t any of us.”

 _What?_ Was Gwaine okay? Merlin shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Plus, the bar has been closed for a while now,” another said.

There were many grunts of agreement around the table.

Sherlock sat up. “Why’s that?”

The knight shrugged. Everyone looked at everyone else for the answer.

“John and I will go and investigate it,” said the detective as he began to stand up.

He didn’t get halfway there before Arthur rested a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and forced him back into his seat. “This meeting is not yet over. Does anyone have anything else of concern?”

The knights looked annoyed and anxious; anything but concerned. It was John who spoke up.

“We were wondering if we could, with your permission, search your quarters.”

“We? And on what grounds?”

“Merlin, Sherlock, and I.” Merlin stiffened, glancing towards John. “The servant—Julia—might have been acting under the influence of a mythical creature called the fomorroh. She entered your chambers the night before she died. She might have planted something there.”

Arthur seemed to contemplate something, then slowly nodded his head. “I suppose-”

The grand doors at the end of the hall opened with a resonating _bang_. Gaius entered alongside a short, skinny young woman with loosely braided mousy hair. They supported a young man between them, his tunic soaked with blood along his left side and his skin frighteningly pale. One of his arms was done up in an amatuer sling. Arthur circled the table of now-alert knights and approached the trio. Merlin forced himself to look away from the young man’s wounds as he felt bile rise in his throat.

“What is this?” Arthur demanded.

“They just arrived to me, Sire. I insisted that he be tended to immediately, but he wouldn’t have it until he spoke to you,” said Gaius.

“Big. . . huge. . . lion-goat-snake thing. . . there was fire. . . Gwaine-” the young man broke off with a gasp. His weight started to give out and the young woman on his right lifted him further. _‘Lion-goat-snake thing?’_ Merlin narrowed his eyes. Only one creature came to mind with that description. _But chimeras weren’t even native to Camelot- why would one attack these peasants?_

“Gwaine?” Percival questioned.

The man nodded, grimaced, and went on, “I saw him. . . the spears. . . a knight was dragging him away. . .”

The girl on his right patted his shoulder, and explained, “One of your knights came last night to see Garman’s, erm, spearmanship. . . your majesty.”  
  
Garman grunted.

“I came running when I saw fire where they—Garman and his brother, that is—usually practice throwing. The knight wasn’t there, Garman had this wound, and Edgar. . . well, Edgar’s dead, your highness.”

“What happened to Gwaine?” Percival had come to stand behind the king, and directed his question at Garman.

Garman attempted a shrug, then almost collapsed. When he was recomposed, he said shakily, “I- I dunno. . . knight came out of forest after the monster ran off. . . he picked up Gwaine and-” Suddenly Garman’s eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped forward, the girl and Gaius barely preventing him from hitting the ground. When he didn’t regain consciousness, they carefully lowered him to the floor. Gaius stood and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Sire, I’m afraid he needs immediate attention. This interrogation can wait until later.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Very well-”

Percival interrupted him. Amice seemed surprised at someone interrupting the king.

“Wait. He said there was a monster. A. . . lion-goat-snake thing. And another knight. We-”

Gaius and the girl already had Garman lifted into the air again, and were backing him out of the doors. Gaius said distractedly, “look, we know you’re very concerned about Gwaine, but this man-”

John spoke up from back at the table. “Maybe we could ask the servant, he seems to know about mythical creatures.”

Merlin’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he stood straight up. All eyes in the room were suddenly on him. Gaius’ especially.

“Oh, not that much,” he said quickly. “I, erm, well, a lion-snake? Sounds like a. . . a. . . griffin? No, sorry. Maybe, uh, what’s the word? Chi. . . chimera?” Merlin struggled to remain nonchalant and oblivious. He’d recognized the animal immediately, but stayed silent, hoping Gaius would say something.

Gaius raised an eyebrow and smiled halfway at Merlin before he was out of sight as he hauled the young man away.

Sherlock spoke up, “We had an issue with a chimera in our kingdom some years back. It had come over from Ishbayern, which is the only kingdom in Avalon that they’re native to.”

Arthur paused, running his hand along the back of his neck. “Sherlock, John, Merlin,” he said, turning around, “forget my chambers. This takes priority. You will investigate the scene, then go to Ishbayern. That girl can take you to her village.”

Merlin exchanged a glance with John.

“Now!”

The three abruptly stood, their chairs scraping and clattering backwards, and they quickly walked towards the exit. Merlin swallowed. Another one killed? He didn’t like how this was going, even if they were finally getting some clear leads.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy: Look! A consistent updating schedule! Who knew, right?  
> Queue: Consistent isn’t exactly the same thing as frequent, but who’s complaining?  
> Fluffy: Not me, that’s for sure. Heh heh heh. . .  
> Queue: And neither am I. *whips head to look at Fluffy* For once.  
> Fluffy: *looks down at feet*  
> Queue: *follows gaze* Hey look! A chapter!

John spurred his horse to catch up with Sherlock, who had ridden ahead of him and Merlin. They had been traveling for almost a day now, on their way to Ishbayern after investigating Garman’s village and informing Arthur that they’d need to track down the chimera’s origins.

Sherlock didn’t even look at him. “About time you joined me. We need to discuss what we saw.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s use of the word _we_. “Let me guess: you’re going to ask what I noticed, I’m not going to say the right thing, and you’re going to correct me while being very condescending.” This was John’s least favorite part about being friends with a consulting detective.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “I’m not condescending.”

John laughed. “Right. Of course you aren’t. So what did we see?”

“You’re not going to tell me you didn’t notice the tracks.”

“I’m afraid I’m about to tell you that exact thing.”

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. “The tracks, John, the tracks!” he cried before lowering his voice again. “Those lion tracks were replaced by boot prints. I followed the paw prints into the forest, and they stopped right where the footprints started.”

“And?”

Sherlock threw his hands into the air, causing his horse to rear its head. When settled, Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose and said calmly, “ _And_ , John, that means that we’re not dealing with a chimera. We’re dealing with a shape-shifter, like I already suspected.”

John gave him a puzzled look. “Already suspected?”

“The first double-attack was by two different creatures. A leshy and a basilisk. As I thought about it last night, I assumed that either we were misinterpreting evidence, two mythical creatures were working in league with each other, or we were working with at least one shape-shifter.”

“Brilliant. But why didn’t you bring this up before?” John tried not to sound insulted.

“It was an assumption, not a presumption. I was waiting for something to back it up. Transforming tracks were just what I needed.”

John paused for a moment. “Does that mean that we should turn back?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Shape-shifters pass their gift on through their children or their children’s children. When I was in Ishbayern last, there was rumor of one going around.”

“So you had us travel all the way out here on that? A rumor?”

“A rumor, maybe. But also, John, the king can’t know about this discovery yet. He’s already strict enough about magic, and if he finds out that a shape-shifter is loose in his kingdom, he’ll be interrogating everyone twice for good measure. We need a tactful way around this, like we always have. Locking up anyone who’s even remotely suspicious is no way to solve a crime.”

“What about keeping people safe, Sherlock? Or has that ever been your goal with all of this? You care more about finding the murderer than locking them up, don’t you?”

“Now, John, let’s not-” 

“Hold up! Come look at this,” Merlin’s voice came from behind them. “This is a mandrake root! What are the odds that we find one all the way out here?”

John turned his head to see Merlin several yards back, off of his horse and stooped to look at something on the ground.

Merlin spoke again, “I’m going to give this to Gaius when we get back. That woman from the first incident, you know. . . well, she’s turning to stone as we speak. Gaius said mandrakes would help.” Merlin reached down to pull it up, then seemed to struggle with it for a few seconds.

Suddenly, Merlin stumbled back as the dirt crumbled upwards. John saw the man’s face blanch at the sight of the “plant” he’d been trying to uproot.

An arm lay in the dirt, white and rotting, attached to some unseen body below. It now seemed to reach upwards towards the young man, who scuttled back a few inches.

“That’s—that’s _not_ a mandrake root,” Merlin said, his voice shaking.

John shuddered. “Do we leave it here?” he asked as he and Sherlock exchanged a glance. It was Merlin who spoke up.

“When I woke up this morning, I did not plan on digging up a dead body. Not to mention pulling up a disembodied arm on the way to a foreign kingdom,” he said from the ground. “But, since I’ve now failed at preventing one of those two, I think the best thing we can do now is just–” he brushed dirt over the arm as he spoke–“cover _this_ back up and leave whomever it’s attached to to rest in peace.” He ended his statement with a tentative pat on the patch of ground he’d just restored.

John grinned at Merlin’s logic and watched him mount his horse again before turning his back to the path.

There was an uncomfortable silence as they rode up a large hill. A sense of unease filled the air, the pale, outstretched arm on all of their minds. At least John imagined it was so, but he doubted it had actually disgruntled Sherlock in any way, judging by what John had discovered on their stove top in the past.

After a few minutes of riding, John saw Sherlock cock his head to the side.

“Do you hear that?” Sherlock asked when John looked at him.

John listened closely over the sound of the horses’ hooves. As he tuned in his hearing, the roar of many voices coming from somewhere up ahead became increasingly evident. “I think we’re getting close to the city.”

Sherlock nodded slowly in agreement. As they rode on, however, it became clear that the voices were shouting and the sound of clanking metal accompanied them.

John scrunched his eyes shut for a moment. “Sherlock. . .”

His friend’s reply seemed rushed. “Let’s just get over this hill. We’ll be able to see the kingdom from the top.”

John uneasily spurred his horse forward, anxious to find out what he was hearing. And by the time he had mounted the hill, the answer was clear.

The city laid out in front of him was in utter turmoil. A roaring filled the air by then, even as he was still about half a mile away. Flocks of arrows were seen flying above the degraded, vine-ridden buildings, and John thought he saw the speck of a person falling over the edge of the outer wall. When he squinted, he realized it was two bodies, struggling against each other even as they fell to their dooms.

John heard hooves fall in line next to him. “Sherlock. . .” he said again, stretching the name out in a crescendo of confusion mingled with sudden horrified realization.

Sherlock coughed. “I may have forgotten to mention that Ishbayern has been going through a bit of an. . . internal conflict, ever since the king died. It was this way when I was here last, too, and that was about two years ago.”

John huffed. “Here last? So you knew about all this?”

“Oh, it wasn’t nearly as severe.”

“But why on earth did you come here? What sort of case was important enough for you to come to this God-forsaken place?”

“Mycroft made me do it. Wanted to see how the city was faring and sent me over for an adultery case. There was a man out of his mind wondering-”

John jumped a little when Merlin dropped a question. He hadn’t heard his horse ride up. “Who’s Mycroft?”

Sherlock, completely unfazed at being interrupted, answered without a beat, “My brother. He’s the–” Sherlock absently waved his hand in the air as he searched for the word–“royal advisor of the kingdom John and I are from.”

John chuckled and corrected,  “Royal advisor? He might as well be the king.”

Sherlock might have grunted in agreement. John couldn’t hear it over the sound of the city.

_Right. The city_.

“Sherlock,” said John, bringing the conversation back around, “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that—Well, you’re the most brilliant person I know, and the state of this city just happened to _slip_ your _mind_? Honestly, Sherlock-”

“Is it too late to turn back?” Merlin startled John again with his presence. Sherlock was again nonplussed at his input.

“This is the only clear lead we have,” Sherlock stated. John knew that wasn’t true, thinking of the transforming prints, but didn’t correct him. He knew Sherlock must have had his reasons for not mentioning them.

“Couldn’t we just _say_ that we went and then search Arthur’s chambers instead? There’s no telling what we could find there,” Merlin suggested.

“If there was anything truly important there, your king would have told us about it by now,” Sherlock pointed out. “Besides, are you suggesting that I lie to a king who’s already not fond of me?”

“I mean, it’s not that hard,” Merlin muttered.

Sherlock turned his head to stare at Merlin, lowering his eyebrows. “What?”

“What?” Merlin shifted in the saddle, and even John could tell he was trying to act like he hadn’t said anything.

John attempted to break the tension. “So. . . are we going into the city or not?”

Sherlock sighed, turning his gaze back to the crumbling ramparts. “We traveled all the way here. We’d lose an entire day of investigation if we turned back now.” He looked at Merlin again. “You can go back if you want, but you’d be alone.”

John smiled and shook his head when he realized that Sherlock had decided for him.

Merlin paused. “. . .I could make it home alone if I wanted to.”

“But are you going to?” Sherlock asked.

“No, but-”

“Good. Let’s go.”

* * *

 

The three slowly approached the kingdom’s entrance, their horses whinnying nervously as they passed under the shadow of the gates, which loomed ominously up ahead; there was no longer any fighting upon the ramparts, but the silence was even more unnerving. John swallowed. He felt like time had stopped.

“Is it too late to turn back now?” Merlin wondered again, glancing around anxiously. Sherlock didn’t reply. He didn’t even hesitate before spurring his horse forward and through the gates. Merlin watched the man tentatively and seemed surprised when Sherlock didn’t get struck down by a flying arrow when his horse’s foot crossed over into the walls of the city.

John motioned with his arm. “After you.”

Merlin turned to look at him. “I, uh. . . no, you go first.”

John shrugged and went ahead to catch up with Sherlock, then checked to make sure Merlin followed them. He did, though the young man remained on his guard.

The first street they passed through was eerily quiet, and John could hear every hoof fall their horses made echo against the dilapidated stone walls. Unlike Camelot, no bustling peasants chatted at market stalls, and no knights were to be seen anywhere. John thought he saw eyes peering out at him from every alley, but they were so shaded he was unsure if it was his imagination or not. It was like a ghost town, and John wondered where the city they’d seen from the hill had gone.

The next street had a few people lining it. A man nursed his friend who lay on the ground, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. A small child sat near the end of the street, coughing weakly. It was a tiny but powerful sound in the vacant street. A young woman rounded the corner and scooped the child up. When she saw the three men on horseback her eyes widened and she hurried away down an alleyway.

As they gradually neared the heart of the city, more and more people began to line the streets. Some were wounded, laying in the middle of the streets. A few of them were half-naked and with no possessions, and others had bruised faces or other injuries. The doctor side of John wanted to get off of his horse, but he knew it would have taken him weeks to care for all of them. So he kept riding.

Finally, they came to the heart of the city. The road there was strewn with bodies, men and women alike, most of them moving or groaning. Others not. Those who could walk stepped carefully over some the people lying on the ground, murmuring to them or tending to their wounds. Others they walked over like dirt. John shuddered when all of the standing ones seemed to turn to look at them all at once.

Sherlock slowly dismounted his horse, as there was no way they were going to be able to ride down this street. John and Merlin followed suit. By the time they had tied their horses to a nearby post, the citizens’ attentions had been redirected to their original tasks.

“What do we do?” asked John, his voice barely a whisper.

Before anyone could answer, they heard a shout come from somewhere down the street. A woman had shoved a man. The man behind them immediately had the woman in a headlock. When the shoved man recovered, he barreled into his antagonizer.

Closer to them, a similar fight had broken out. The wounded were getting up and joining in. John’s jaw fell open as he watched the street quickly unfold into chaos, like a kicked hornet’s nest. In a matter of seconds, the street was alive again and shouts echoed off the walls down onto the trio of visitors.

As the snowballing fight expanded towards them, Sherlock grabbed John’s arm. “We need to get out of here.”

“The horses-”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock glanced behind them at their red-scarved companion. “Make sure he follows us. Now follow me.”

“Sherlock, where are we-”

“There must be a back way through the alleys. It’s our best option.” Without waiting, Sherlock started to jog away.

John looked to Merlin. “Come on!” he said, and they both set out after the detective.

As they dove into an alley, John felt a chill run down his spine as they were immediately immersed in darkness. It was narrow—John’s shoulders barely fit between the walls on either side of them—but in no way cozy. The walls were dank and smelled like mold, and the rocks were so cold they felt almost wet to the touch. The sound of their breathing ricocheted off the walls and the volume of it multiplied until there were thousands of tiny whispers all around them. When John looked up, the strip of sky above them seemed distant and pale, and he felt he’d entered some kind of enchanted cave, not an alley.

After wending down a few passages, Sherlock stopped and John was careful not to run into him. He felt a light shove from behind when Merlin stopped a moment late.

John waited a moment before whispering, “Why are we stopped?”

“There’s someone up ahead. I’m trying to figure out how to get past them.”

“Just ask if we can step over them,” suggested Merlin.

John shook his head. “Did you see what those people were like out there? I say we leave this person be and go back and take a different route.”

A high-pitched boy’s voice came from up ahead, and John’s skin crawled at how it reverberated against the walls. “I can hear everything you’re saying, you know.”

John’s voice caught in his throat, and he couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t judge how a child from this city might act.

“And what do you say? Can we pass you?” It was Merlin who asked it, and John wondered if the young man was being courageous or over-trusting.

“That depends. You know where you’re going? You don’t sound like you’re from around here.” The boy had a strange accent, stretching his vowels in a way John hadn’t heard before.

When no one answered, the boy made a proposition, “‘Cause I can take you anywhere you need to be in this city. For a price.”

“What kind of price?” John asked, skeptical.

“I need money. I need food.”

“We have money.” John felt like he could step on Merlin’s foot. He was crossing the line of bravery and stupidity.

“How much?”

John answered before Merlin could, “We just need to get through the city. How much will that cost us?”

“Give me half a pound of silver and I’ll take you to someone who can do that for you.”

“Take us to someone? Whom?” Sherlock finally spoke up.

“There’s only one person in Ishbayern who has the respect of everyone in the city. If you’re seen with ‘em, nobody’ll mess with ya. Promise.”

“Who says he’ll help us?” John asked.

“Oh, they will. I’d swear on it.”

John whispered again, though he knew it was pointless. “What do you say, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stayed silent for a few moments. “Half a pound, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “We will pay you once we’re at the door of this respected person.”

The boy said eagerly, “That’s fair. You’ll follow me now, then?”

Sherlock responded with compliance as John saw the faint outline of his back start to move forward again. As they walked, the boy chattered. “You three are a gloomy bunch. Do you all not talk much where you’re from, or what?”

John spoke up, “What’s your name?”

“I’m called Ace. Don’t know what my parents named me, but I don’t know my parents, neither, so whatever name they chose wouldn’t matter, anyway, would it?” The boy laughed.

John frowned. “You shouldn’t make light of your situation. Who takes care of you?”

The boy’s laughter increased. “Boy! You are a load! _I_ take care of me. And what else am I going to do with my situation? Make heavy of it? Think that’ll keep me warm in the winter? Keep me from going thirsty in the summer?”

“Neither does joking about it.”

“Yeah, but one still might keep me alive longer.”

John winced. “How old are you?”

“Last I checked I was seven, but I lost track there.” The boy lapsed into another bout of laughter. “I don’t know what comes after!”

John felt a little bit sick to his stomach.

As they rounded the corner, daylight was seen up ahead. “Are you taking us back into those streets?” asked John.

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, it’s the only way there. You wouldn’t think a front door would be in an _alley_ , would you?”

John could hear the fighting up ahead. “How are we going to get through the crowds?”

“Don’t let me out of your sight and try not to get hit by arrows!” the boy said gleefully. Before John could respond, he was out of the alley and running after Sherlock, who he prayed wouldn’t lose sight of the boy.

As he was jostled through the aggressive bunch of bodies, he kept track of Sherlock’s night-black cloak in sight amongst all of the varying shades of brown and red. A few times he glanced behind him to make sure Merlin was still there.

On top of all of this, John kept aware of his surroundings, watching for the arrows Ace had warned them about. He hadn’t seen any coming their way yet, but-

“Sherlock!” he bellowed as he saw an arrow whistling towards his friend’s head, “watch-”

Sooner than he could finish his sentence, however, the arrow seemed to halt and levitate in the air, wavering like a hummingbird, before falling safely to the ground a moment later. John’s mouth fell open and he almost stumbled.

“John?” called back Sherlock.

John caught his breath. “Nothing! Never mind!”

John’s heart caught in his throat as another arrow spun towards them. A word of warning started to form in his mouth, but this time he didn’t even have time to let it out before the arrow froze and dropped to the ground.

John looked over his shoulder and was about the ask Merlin if he was seeing the phenomenon as well when he caught a glimpse of golden luminescence fading from the young man’s eyes.

John smiled knowingly and turned back around. _That explains a lot_ , he thought to himself.

John started to notice that the crowd was beginning to thin out, and soon enough he was able to dodge instead of shove through the bodies. It wasn’t long before their pace began to slow, and at long last, they stopped. John leaned forward to place his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. He didn’t imagine they’d crossed a lot of distance, but the elbowing he’d had to do had sapped his energy. By now, he was totally drained and it was all he could do to stay standing.

Merlin caught up with them and John could hear the man’s breath from where he stood. He wondered if using magic took energy.

John was about to voice his question when he heard Ace’s voice from in front of them. “Here’s the door I promised to take you to. Can I have my money now?”

John looked up and realized this was his first time seeing the boy in daylight. The first thing John noticed was how terribly scrawny he was. The boy’s ribs were seen through his worn, almost unrecognizably red shirt. The boy’s threadbare trousers were short enough on his legs that his bony ankles showed. Ace’s bare feet were caked in whatever the streets had on them—blood, dirt. . . John shuddered to think what else. Nearly all of Ace’s dark olive skin that showed was sunburnt, except maybe his forehead: his thick, dark hair fell into his eyes, and all of it was an unkempt heap.

The boy wiped his nose with a grubby hand and his ale-brown eyes locked with John’s. He raised an expectant dark eyebrow.

It was Sherlock who reached for his coin satchel first. He dumped some out onto his hand, then sorted it with a long finger. When he looked up, the boy’s shiny eyes were watching his movements intently.

At last, Sherlock shut his fist and approached the boy, who eagerly stuck out his cupped hands. There was the sound of coins clinking together.

When Sherlock stepped back, the boy was staring at his hands with a stunned expression.

“But sir, this is more than-”

“Keep it.”

The boy looked up and grinned, half of his face lifted further than the other. Then he giggled and ran away without saying goodbye. John watched him disappear into an alley.

“That was good of you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything as he lifted the heavy brass knocker on the door.

John saw that the wood underneath the knocker was deeply scarred, and then he went on to note that this knocker was the only one on the street that hadn’t been stolen, despite its polished appearance. He took this as further proof that this was the house of a deeply respected—maybe even feared—person.

John started to wonder what kind of war hero was about to open the door, and his heart began to speed up, pictures of burly gang leaders flooding his mind. And this wasn’t just a gang leader. This was a leader respected by both sides of the battle.

As John’s anxieties increased, he regretted not asking Ace what sort of victory this hero had accomplished to be so renowned by such a conflict-stricken city. Was this the man who had killed the king? A man who could get past legions of guards?

Footsteps reached their ears from within the house. _Thump-thump thud. Thump-thump thud_. It repeated over and over.

“Do you think he has a wooden leg?” John said, trying to filter out the fear in his voice.

Sherlock tilted his head. “Could be. . . But I don’t think so.” He sounded uncertain, and John’s heart pounded in his ears.

There was the sound of rattling metal. A latch was being undone on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy: Look at us! Three days, and we updated! Whoo hoo! We should get a metal.  
> Queue: You know what, I actually agree with you on that. But what I’m worried about is if the suspense isn’t settling in for all our readers. You know, a good chapter is like an aged cheese. It’s. . . aged.  
> Fluffy: I left cheese out for three days one time. It wasn’t pretty.  
> Queue: . . .You know what? You might have a point, there.

Merlin shuffled his feet nervously, for once confident that John and Sherlock were thinking the same thing as he was as they exchanged uncertain glances. Despite Ace’s confidence that this powerful and respected figure would help them, Merlin didn’t share it. He’d already experienced a close enough call when his magic was almost witnessed by John in the streets, and he didn’t want his secret to be exposed now if he had to save them from whatever strange man was about to open the door.

There was the sound of creaking hinges, and the door opened a few inches. Merlin bit the inside of his cheek.

“Hello?” An elderly woman stood in the doorway, looking the men over. Merlin frowned.

The woman had short, thin hair. Half was golden-brown and the other half was grey. The ends of it turned up around her ears like it was trying to be curly. The face that it framed was loose-skinned and long. Her smile mostly showed her top row of teeth, and her eyebrows seemed to be constantly raised.  Merlin noticed that despite the cane she held in her hand, she stood tall; at least as tall as Merlin was. 

“Who are you three? To what do I owe the pleasure?” She squinted at Sherlock, stepping closer towards him, setting her cane against the wall. “Fred? Is that you? My, it’s been so—Oh, pardon me, Fred has brown eyes. I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve met.” She said it as if she were unsure.

Sherlock, for the first time Merlin had ever seen him, looked baffled. “We—we, um. . .” He cleared his throat. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and these are my companions, John and Merlin. We come from Camelot searching for a chimera. We were told this is where the one person who has the respect of everyone in the city lives?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say  _ everyone _ ,” the lady waved a hand. “Rowan and Henry always were a handful, tearing up the petunias, hogging the blackberries—but they’ve gotten better-”

“Hey!” 

Merlin whipped around, tensing when he saw a rough-looking, muscular young man approaching them with his hands held behind his back. Merlin saw Sherlock stiffen and John’s hand drift towards his sword.

“Speak of the devil! Rowan!” the lady grabbed her cane and shoved past them, looking the strange man over. To Merlin’s utter shock, he pulled out flowers from behind his back, presenting her with a roughly assembled bouquet. 

“Do you like them?” Rowan asked eagerly.

“Oh, they’re wonderful, dear, that’s so sweet of you!” she gushed, taking the flowers from him as he looked down at his feet. “Are you still coming over for tea at sunset?”   
  
“Me an’ the guys, yeah,” he confirmed.

“Wonderful! See you then!” the lady turned back to Sherlock. Sherlock blinked, and Merlin’s eyes were wide as they were all struck with the same realization at the same time.

“Who are you?” Merlin heard himself ask. 

“Oh, I haven’t introduced myself! How rude of me; I’m Lady Hudson.” She pushed open her door. “Would you care to join me for some tea?”

The three looked around at each other, each holding the same stunned expression. Merlin thought this was his first time he’d seen Sherlock confused.

“Yes. . . thank you,” said John as he followed the woman inside. John looked back at them and shrugged.

They followed the woman back to the parlor, which was a homey and pleasant one, with dozens of chairs lining the walls and gathered around the fireplace. 

The woman gestured around the room, “Pick a chair, any chair. I need to find a vase to put these in.” She lifted the bouquet she held in a sort of toast. “You all sit tight, now. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Merlin, Sherlock, and John all took a seat. John cleared his throat and glanced towards Sherlock, asking in a low voice, “Is she—is Lady Hudson the one Ace was talking about?”

Sherlock turned to face his friend, eyes still wide. “It appears so. How that’s possible, I’m not sure of yet.”

Lady Hudson walked back into the parlor, holding a tray that held a kettle, three teacups, and a vase of flowers. She lowered the tray onto a chair and picked up the vase.

“I’ll just put this with the rest of them,” she said as she set the vase on a nearby shelf that was tightly lined with vases of flowers of varying sorts, some of which Merlin had never seen before. He raised his eyebrows.

“Those flowers. . . does, um, Rowan pick all of them?” Merlin asked hesitantly.

“Oh, of course not. This is the first time he’s brought me flowers, actually. The rest of these, oh, all of the boys on this street are so sweet, making sure a little old lady like me has a nice aroma in her home in a place like this. That one—that one’s from this little boy called Ace, wonderful kid, and that one’s from Henry, he just brought them in yesterday—oh, dear, Fred’s are all wilted. What a shame; they’re the nicest ones I’d gotten in awhile.” Lady Hudson rambled as she set the teacups in front of the men. Merlin picked up the teacup, glancing at the design. They could’ve been sold for a good amount of money, and it was almost surprising that they hadn’t been stolen.

“Pardon me for asking,” John began, “but how. . . Well, with the gangs—How did you manage to gain so much respect?” Merlin deciphered a faint trace of awe in his voice.

“Oh,” Lady Hudson took a seat in a rocking chair, “well, before the king died, he wasn’t very popular around here. Honestly, he could have cared less about all these poor little children in the streets. I’d had extra money and resources ever since I had inherited the fortunes of my late parents and husband, and so I was able to offer shelter and food for the kids who weren’t fortunate enough to have a home.”

“And those kids–” John gestured out the window– “are now  _ those  _ men?”

Lady Hudson nodded. “Most of them. They grow up so fast, don’t they?” She sighed through her nose. “They’re real sweet once you get to know them.” 

Merlin exchanged a disbelieving glance with John and Sherlock, but none of them commented. 

Sherlock set down his teacup with a clink. “You know this city well, then. Would you be able to tell us if there are any shape-shifters in it?”

Merlin furrowed his brow.  _ Shape-shifters? _ He thought they’d come there for chimeras. He made a mental note to pay closer attention to Sherlock and John’s conversations.

Lady Hudson stiffened. “There have been rumors.”

“Yes, I know. I was wondering if you could elaborate on them.”

The old woman set down her tea and rocked back in her seat. “Now, you said your name was Sherlock Holmes. I think I’m beginning to remember something about you now.”

“What about me?”

“Yes. . . You ruined two of the children’s lives.”

“Did I?”

She nodded. “You know. . . the kids confide in me many things. And some things,” she looked down her nose at the three men, “are secrets I wouldn’t confide with anyone.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “Things you would part with for no price?”

She laughed once. “I wouldn’t betray those kids if you had a knife to my neck. And if you think I would then you’re a fool.”

Sherlock leaned back again. “And since I am not a fool, I will tread lightly with my interrogations.”

“Wise of you.” Lady Hudson took a sip of her tea.

“Now, you can confirm that there have been rumors about a shape-shifter in Ishbayern?”

She nodded.

“But you cannot confirm that they were true.”

She nodded again.

“And because you would not give up any of the children’s secrets, I have every reason to believe that these rumors  _ are _ true.”

She did not nod this time. 

Sherlock leaned in. “Lady Hudson. . . There is a shape-shifter in Camelot that is killing people.  _ Innocent  _ people. If you know who it is, you could save a lot of lives.”

Merlin saw John stiffen next to him, and wondered at it.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she said, “You’re asking me to do something that is out of my ability.”

“Then you’ll have no problem coming with us?”

Lady Hudson smiled. “Now there’s something I think I can handle. Let me fetch my cloak.” She got up and stepped out of the room.

“Sherlock, how do you plan to get any more information out of her?” John asked.

“I imagine she might listen to us once she sees what this person has done.”

Merlin looked at them. “Why didn’t you tell me we were looking for a shape-shifter?”

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. Sherlock spoke, “Your king can’t know yet.”

“Why?”

“The whole city would know about it by the end of the day, and whoever the perpetrator is needs to think they’re ahead of us.”

Merlin thought he understood, but was still sore about not being told about the discovery. “I won’t tell him yet.”

“Plus, whatever Julia planted in his chambers. . . We don’t know whether or not we can trust him right now or not.”

Merlin’s eyes widened. “Not trust Arthur? But we have no idea  _ if _ Julia planted anything there. She might have just attempted to kill him, or. . . any number of things!”

Sherlock shrugged. “We won’t know until we find out, will we?”

Lady Hudson returned into the room, donned with a blue cloak around her shoulders and her cane again in her hand. “Ready to go, boys?”

They all three stood at the same time. As they made their way to the door, Merlin heard Lady Hudson whistling quietly. He silently wondered how she was so relaxed about being essentially arrested.

They stepped out of the door and into the now-dim street. There were still a few fist fights going on down the road, but most of the people from earlier had disappeared. As Lady Hudson shut the door behind her, she called to the fighting men. “Boys! Break it up right now, or you’ll be hearing from me!”

One of them broke away from his opponent long enough to jog over to where Lady Hudson stood. Merlin recognized him as Rowan from earlier. The man took off his hat.

“Where are you going, ma’am? I thought we was having tea about now?”

“ _ Were _ having tea, Rowan. And I’m afraid these men are taking me with them.”

Rowan’s face scrunched up. “Taking you with ‘em?” Rowan looked them over. “Why?”

Lady Hudson laughed. “I think they want to take me back to their kingdom for interrogation.”

Rowan looked over the men suspiciously. “Interrogatin’?” He swung his head over his shoulder and called, “Hey, guys! Get a load of this!”

Several people emerged from alleys and one climbed down the wall of a building. They were all gathered by Rowan’s side within seconds. All of them wore blue handkerchiefs around their necks. A few of them eyed Merlin’s red scarf.

Rowan crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto one hip. “These guys think they’re takin’ Lady Hudson home with ‘em.”

The gang broke into laughter, hooting and sneering.

“Now, now, boys,” soothed Lady Hudson.

“Now, now,  _ ma’am _ ,” said Rowan. “You’re not going nowhere. See, this city wouldn’t last a day without ya.”

Lady Hudson laughed. “Oh, I’m sure you can look after yourself for a-”

Rowan interrupted her, “That’s where you’re-”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking,” Lady Hudson chided, before smiling again. “Now, you’re telling me that you don’t think this city can survive for a day with me gone?”

Rowan looked at his feet. “No, ma’am. Not for an hour, even.”

“Now, we couldn’t have that, could we?”

“No, ma’am.”

Lady Hudson hummed thoughtfully under her breath. “Well, I suppose you can just track down whoever’s possession these men’s horses are in by now, and escort them out of the city gates.”

“Without you?”

“Without me, Rowan.”

Merlin stiffened and started to step forward. “Hey! You can’t just-”

Sherlock stuck a hand out to stop Merlin in his tracks. “We’re outnumbered,” he murmured, eying Rowan and his gang, which looked collected for the moment, but Merlin imagine them as lions, ready to spring at any given moment. He stepped back and sighed.

“Well, finding horses shouldn’t be hard,” said Rowan, looking at Merlin intently. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Hank, here, picked ‘em up from the Vegetables-”

“Now, Rowan, we agreed on calling them the  _ Greens _ ,” corrected Lady Hudson.

Rowan’s lip curled, and he said reluctantly, “From the  _ Greens _ , just a bit ago.”

Lady Hudson tapped her cane on the ground. “Picked them up? I can hardly imagine any other gang in this city offering three perfectly good horses to you for free.”

Rowan bobbed his head to the left. “Take it up with Hank. I wasn’t any part of it.”

Someone in the crowd—presumably Hank—suddenly looked like he had somewhere else to be. Lady Hudson smiled with pursed lips. “I will.”

A low “oooooooh” rose up among the gang, along with several titters of laughter.

“For now, though, go and fetch them.”

The gang members looked around at each other, and without saying anything three of them ran off in the same direction. They were back within a few minutes, leading three horses by their manes.

“Where are their saddles? And reins?” asked Merlin.

“Tough luck,” grunted one of them as he passed over the horse to Merlin. Merlin clenched his teeth.

“Well, I think I left the fire in the oven going, so I’ll be seeing you all around.” Lady Hudson waved and was back in her house before any of them could protest.

Merlin’s eyes drifted back to the gang. They were all grinning. “Get on your horses,” said Rowan with a grin. “We’ll  _ escort _ you.”

John, Sherlock, and Merlin did as they were told, too defeated to do anything else. “So much for not wasting a day of investigation,” Merlin muttered.

As they walked, one of the gang members picked up a stick and started clanking it on all of the unlit streetlights hanging from rusty chains on every building. “Make way!” he called, his voice sarcastic. “Royal snobs coming through!”

Pretty soon the group was hooting with laughter and all of them were shouting, “Make way! Make way!” Merlin clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on the horse’s mane.

“Oi! What’s all this about?” a woman’s voice shouted from a building up ahead. Merlin squinted his eyes through the darkness and saw a young woman reclining in an empty window sill on the second story of a run-down building.

She scampered down the wall, her bare feet finding unseen footholds, and soon several other gruff-looking women had slunk down building and had joined her in her approach. They all wore crimson neckerchiefs and had bobbed hair. 

A few of Rowan’s group whistled as the women approached, and were met with sneers or cruel smirks. The women who had spoken approached Merlin slowly, then abruptly reached up and yanked his scarf and pulled his face close to hers. Merlin tensed, noticing John’s hand instinctively reach for his sword hilt next to him.

“What makes you think you can wear this?” she spat, rubbing the cloth between her fingers.

Merlin stuttered. “I. . . I’m from out of town.”

She released him and he sat back up, rubbing his neck. “Out of town, huh?”

Rowan rounded Merlin’s horse and addressed her from behind. “Yeah. We were just showing them out.”

“Is that so?” She turned to face him, looking anything but interested.

“It is so.” He leaned in for emphasis. “Lady Hudson’s orders.”

The woman barked a laugh. “I see. Then you wouldn’t mind if we joined you?” she slinked to the other side of him, heading back to the rest of her group.

Rowan grabbed her arm. “Actually, we  _ would _ mind.”

She promptly socked him in the stomach. “Paws off,  _ knave _ .”

Both sides shifted their stances, their eyes flicking between the two. A few licked their lips.

Rowan took a step closer to her. “What did you call me?”

“A called you a knave, you no-good bastard yaldson-”

He sprung at her, shoving her by the shoulders, and the street erupted. Merlin put a hand to his face. Their horses began to whinny nervously amongst the flying fists.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Sherlock, kicking his horse’s flanks. Merlin didn’t need to be told twice.

They weren’t halfway down the street when a cry came up from behind them. “Hey!” bellowed one of the gang members. “They’re getting away!”

Soon the sound of fighting was replaced by running footsteps, and the three visitors spurred their horses to a fast canter. Merlin heard stones falling around them, and ducked his head. His horse neighed as a stone caught it from the rear, and it sped to a gallop. Merlin reached forward and clung onto his horse’s neck to prevent himself from being flung off.

Merlin could see the outline of the gates up ahead, even in the dark. He heard the other two’s horses’ hooves falling heavily around him.  _ Come on _ . . . 

Right as they passed under the stone archway, Merlin concentrated his magic on the iron gate. The heavy iron grate fell, closing them safely out and the raging gangs in, just as they passed beneath the stone archway. The angry shouting and banging of iron behind them soon became distant. Finally, they slowed to a halt at the top of the hill, letting their horses rest. 

“Well, Sherlock?” John asked between gasps. “Was all that worth it?”

“Completely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Til next time!  
> Fluffy: Which, with how things have been going lately, might not actually be that far away!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! So many chapters! And we’re planning for one more before the end of the month, and then. . .  
> Queue: Shhh. . .  
> Fluffy: I wasn't gonna spoil it!  
> Queue: Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh. . .  
> Fluffy: ;(

 Merlin, Sherlock and John stood before the king’s throne, the afternoon sun still bright outside. They’d just arrived back from Ishbayern a few hours ago, and John was well aware of the blisters riding bareback had given him. John shifted his weight, clenching his teeth as he tried to ignore the urge to itch. On top of that, he was tense in anticipation of the king’s reaction to the lack of information they’d gleaned for him from their trip to Ishbayern. Despite Sherlock’s insistence that their trip to Ishbayern the previous day hadn’t been a fool’s errand, Arthur didn’t seem to agree.

“You found _nothing_ out about the chimera, and mean to tell me that the trip wasn’t a total waste of time?” Arthur’s voice seemed louder than life. John winced.

Sherlock spoke up in defense of them, “Sire, any day of investigation is not a waste. Even a lack of information narrows down our choices.”

Arthur leaned back in his throne exasperatedly. “Get out of my sight. I need you to make some sort of progress _by tonight_ or I’ll have my knights deal with this themselves.”

Merlin stepped forward. “Arthur-”

“Now!” said Arthur, slamming his fist on the armrest of his throne before settling back, chin in hand and expression disgusted.

Merlin looked taken aback. John narrowed his eyes. Perhaps something _was_ up with the king. He glanced towards Sherlock, whose expression remained cool. The detective dipped his head and exited the throne room, Merlin and John following in his wake.

“Where’re we going?” Merlin inquired as Sherlock walked purposefully down the halls.

“The king’s quarter’s.”

“What?”

John turned to look as Merlin halted in surprise, and John slowed down, conflicted for a moment as Sherlock’s pace stayed relentless. Merlin jogged to catch up. “We can’t just _do_ this! We need his permission!”

“I’d rather ask for forgiveness than permission,” Sherlock stated, taking a sharp turn down the halls before stopping abruptly in front of the wooden door to Arthur’s chambers. “This the one?”

Before Merlin could answer, Sherlock pushed the door open and went inside, quickly followed by John. John glanced back when Merlin hesitated, but the sorcerer eventually gave in and closed the door behind him. He took a deep breath before turning around.

“Okay, now what? What’re we even looking for?” Merlin wondered.

Sherlock gave Merlin a sidelong glance. “You’re his manservant, aren’t you? Look for anything out of the ordinary. I already have a hunch that if I find the right evidence for. . .” Sherlock trailed off, walking into the other room and approaching the bed. He lifted up the pillow. Nothing. John, as per usual, had no idea what had drawn Sherlock’s attention, but soon joined him at his side, peering around him.

Sherlock swung around and almost ran into John. He gave him an annoyed glance but was quickly drawn across the room to examine Arthur’s wardrobe. John heard Merlin shuffling about on the other side of the chambers.

As Sherlock shut the bottom drawer with a click, Merlin spoke up, “Hey, guys. . .”

Sherlock hurried to where Merlin was, which was on the other side of Arthur’s dressing screen. When John got there, he followed their gazes at one of the panels of canvas.

A splash of blood surrounded by dozens of droplets was apparent, even against the red velvet. It was faded, as if someone had frantically tried to wash it out but eventually given up.

“Perfect,” said Sherlock.

“What does it mean?” asked John.

Sherlock hesitated. “The blood splattered on the canvas has a tail going upwards, which implies that someone was struck or cut with force and the blood splattered at an angle. However, judging by the short length of the tails, I’d say it couldn’t have been much more than a vertical angle. Which means that someone was struck or cut right about. . .” Sherlock stepped closer to the canvas, touching his neck and reaching his arm out to form a nearly vertical line from him to the canvas. “They were struck on the neck, assuming they are of average height. Merlin,” Sherlock whipped around to face the manservant. “Do we know when Julia became under the control of the fomorroh?”

“The old woman said she’d been acting strangely for a few weeks,” Merlin said.

“So she would have received the cut before she broke into Arthur’s quarter’s?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Merlin clarified.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “That narrows it down to Arthur and you.”

Merlin looked taken aback. “ _Me?_ But I-”

John’s eyes widened with realization. “Merlin, you’re the only other person than Arthur who could have been in this room when that bloodstain was made. We have to check.”

Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “not again” under his breath, Merlin took off his scarf and pushed down his shirt collar, turning his back to them. John didn’t see any sort of scar or evidence that he had a snake head slithering around under his skin, and turned to Sherlock for confirmation. Sherlock shrugged. “Thank you, Merlin. This explains your king’s behavior.”

Merlin turned back around, fixing his scarf back around his neck. He looked worried. “So it’s not me?”

Sherlock nodded.

“What do we do about Arthur?”

“We have a shape-shifter vicariously controlling this kingdom. What do you say we do, John?” Sherlock pointed to him.

John stuttered. “I don’t know how to deal with a fomorroh!”

“Merlin, then.” Sherlock pointed to Merlin.

“Last time we had to kill the mother beast. Gaius also did something to me so that it lost control of me for a time, but-”

“Last time? To you?” asked John, baffled.

“It’s a long story. Anyway, I think whatever we do, we should see Gaius first.”

“To Gaius’, then.” Sherlock turned to step out from behind the screen, when they heard the door open. All three of them froze.

“Cover us,” breathed Sherlock quickly, shoving Merlin forward.

“Me? But I-”

Arthur glanced up as he shut the door behind him. “Ah, Merlin. I need you to help me change. I have supper with the king of a neighboring kingdom tonight.”

John and Sherlock backed up. John looked around for a place to hide. “We’re going to have to slip out when he comes behind it,” Sherlock hissed from behind. John nodded.

“Ch—change? You look fine,” Merlin stuttered.

Arthur’s voice came again. He sounded unamused. “Seriously, Merlin? Get over here.”

“I. . . Wait! Isn’t this feast. . . tomorrow night?” Merlin said loudly.

“Pipe down. And no, I’m fairly certain it’s tonight.” There was the sound of footsteps. “Would you get over here?”

“I, uh, well, alright! I’m _coming over here_. . . behind the dressing screen!”

There was a thwacking sound. “Ow!” exclaimed Merlin.

“Cut it out and it won’t happen again.”

“Cut. . . what out, exactly?” Merlin asked, his voice forcedly casual.

More footsteps. John’s heart pounded.

“You know what I mean, Merlin. Now fetch my belt and get back here.”

“All right. . .”

Just as John saw Arthur’s toe step into their line of sight, John and Sherlock swung around to the other side of the screen. John held his breath. Merlin’s eyes widened from the other side of the room, where he was quickly picking up Arthur’s belt.

A shirt flung over the top of the divider. Merlin hurried across the room and was soon on the other side of the partition from Sherlock and John.

There was the sound of rustling cloth, then Arthur spoke. “Oh, um, ignore that. I accidentally cut myself on my sword yesterday when you weren’t here to help me put it on.”

“You really can’t last a day without me, can you?”

Arthur was again unamused. “Cut it out with the sass.”

“. . .Yes, Sire. Where did you cut yourself?”

Arthur was silent for a moment before replying. “It was my hand—You can’t see it now. I had Gaius tend to it.”

“Oh. Good.”

John tiptoed across the room, keeping his breath soft. Sherlock was next to him.

“That should do, Merlin.”

John quickly motioned to one of the large velvet curtains hanging by the king’s window before whipping behind it. He felt Sherlock’s presence next to him. There were footsteps across the room.

“You’ll be there tonight, Merlin,” said Arthur. It was not a question.

“I. . . Well, I was going to be helping Sherlock-”

“You’ll be there if you don’t want me to fire you.”

“But, Sire-”

“It sounds to me like you want to fire you.”

“No, but I just can’t-”

“Get out of my sight,” said Arthur gravely.

“Arthur?”

There was another thwacking sound. “Don’t you understand? You are replaceable!”

John heard Merlin take in a breath, even from across the room. “Yes, Sire. I’m gone.”

There were quick footsteps and the slamming of a door. The king grumbled, “Maybe that will teach him not to help the man.”

There were more footsteps, and the sound of the door again. John started to move, but Sherlock grabbed his arm. “Wait. . .”

They listened for any sign of Arthur coming back. It was a long minute before Sherlock released John’s arm and stepped out from behind the curtain. “Let’s go find Merlin.”

They stepped out of the door. Merlin was down the hallway, staring at the floor with a blank expression and tapping his foot. He looked up when they started to move towards him. “Sorry, Merlin-” started John.

“He's _definitely_ not himself. But I don’t think he’ll remember any of what happens while he's under the fomorroh’s control,” said Merlin quickly. “And he didn’t see either of you two.” He smoothed his shirt and breathed in, his shaking soon subsiding. “Let’s go see Gaius, now, yeah?”

John heard the padding of feet coming down the hallway, and swung around to see who it was. He recognized it as Sir Percival, who didn’t look very happy.

“Merlin,” said Percival when he approached them. “Would you believe this? Gwaine’s been at the tavern this whole time.”

“The whole time?”

“Yeah! And to think we were _worried_ about him! Man, when he’s sober he’s gonna hear it from me, let me tell you!” Percival stalked off again, his hand clenched at his side.

John turned to Merlin. “That sounds fishy.”

“I mean, if it was anyone other than Gwaine. . .” Merlin shook his head. “But no, you’re right. You saw a knight dragging him there, right, Sherlock?” asked Merlin.

Sherlock nodded distractedly, seeming to be thinking about something else. John knew he must have just been way ahead of them.

“But none of them knew who it had been, and they only found him there now,” Merlin pointed out.

“How about this,” John began, “Merlin and I can go and see this Gwaine fellow, and you can talk to Gaius,” John proposed, nodding to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Tell me what you find.”

With that, Sherlock spun around and headed off to Gaius' chambers. John turned to Merlin.

“You think this’ll be worth our time?”

Merlin shrugged. “I hope so.”

* * *

John and Merlin entered the doors of the hazy tavern. The window panes were covered with grime and permitted little more than a dull dose of sunlight through. The two weaved their way around the crowded wooden tables and chairs. Merlin saw a man with longish brown hair hunched at a bar stool in front of the counter and immediately recognized him as Gwaine. He rushed forward and clapped him on the back. Gwaine looked up, then grinned widely, although it took him a few seconds.

“Merlin!” he proclaimed before belching loudly.

Merlin wrinkled his nose. “Whew! You really have been here the whole time, haven’t you?”

Gwaine winked and took another sip from his mug.

A door leading to the back room swung open and a woman with dark hair and skin stepped through the door, pushing it open with her back. Her eyes darted to Merlin and John when she turned around, then she smiled at them, her mouth closed.

“Can I get you boys anything?” she asked.

Merlin shook his head. “No thank you. John?”

John shrugged. “Just some ale, please.”  
  
The bartender nodded before returning to the back room. Gwaine shifted towards Merlin, his eyes wide and earnest. “You should have a drink. It tastes. . .” Gwaine stared off into space, as if unsure how to describe it when finally settling on, “. . .very good.”

John raised his eyebrows. “So you’re Gwaine? The knight of Camelot?” He sounded skeptical.

“What is a knight, really, but someone who battles the opposite of day?” Gwaine pondered dramatically, staring off at something behind Merlin. John cast Merlin an unsure glance.

“Gwaine, you’re not making any sense,” said Merlin with a slightly nervous laugh.

“You know, the opposite of day is evening, and knights usually fight in the evening,” Gwaine explained, as if Merlin were a lost pupil and Gwaine the teacher.

“I thought you were going a different direction with that,” John muttered.

“You never know which direction I’m going to go,” declared Gwaine, waving his arm. Merlin stepped back to avoid being hit.

“Wait, Gwaine, about fighting in the evening. It was evening when you fought the chimera, wasn’t it?” Merlin attempted to make the conversation productive.

“Who’s Keemera? I’m pretty sure I would remember a girl with a name as pretty as Keemera. Why would I fight her, though?” Gwaine raised half of his upper lip and an eyebrow.

Merlin noticed that John ran his hand down his face. “Not a girl. A monster. A lion-goat-snake monster that you fought with Garman.”

“Garman! That rings a bell. He was the tall one, right? Or was it the one who kept missing the target? Wait, was that the same person? No, couldn’t be. . .” Gwaine rambled.

"Gwaine, he’s the one whose brother was killed by the monster. He’s currently being treated by Gaius,” said Merlin, struggling to stay patient. He didn’t want to waste more investigation as they had in Ishbayern.

Gwaine’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened. “His brother’s dead?”

Merlin didn’t miss his opportunity. “Yes, and if you don’t tell us what happened, then more people could-”

The door swung open and the bartender returned with John’s meal in hand. She pushed it towards him. “I haven’t seen either of you around here before. You from out of town?”

Gwaine swung his head to look at her. “‘Course you have. Merlin’s been around here with me before, and he-” Gwaine cut off, seeming to realize he didn’t know who John was. “Who’re you?”

“My name’s John. I’m here with my friend Sherlock Holmes,” said John, addressing the bartender. He slid his pay for his meal across the counter as he spoke.

The woman picked up the money and put it in her apron, then looked down at her hands, tracing the dark lines on her palms. “I see. I’m called Marie.”

“Well, Marie,” John paused to glance at Gwaine, “I should probably ask you a few questions, just to be safe.”

Her eyes flicked up. “Ask away.”

John took a sip of his ale. “Two nights ago, where were you?”

“Two nights? Let’s see. . . I haven’t been getting any customers around here. Anybody could tell you that. I think everybody’s paranoid about that beast that’s been running about. Anyway, that night I shut up the tavern and went to visit my sister. She’s a nice woman,” Marie recounted, not breaking eye contact with John. “Lives in a village outside of the city. To the north. Spent the night there and got back this morning.”

Merlin let out a breath. Garman’s village was to the South.

“Oooh! I remember!” Gwaine suddenly exclaimed. “There was a dude in armor. I think it was a knight. He was nice. I think. I dunno.” Gwaine frowned.

Merlin sighed. “So you remember a knight?"  
  
“Yeah! And then I was back h-”

“Were you finished questioning me, John?” interrupted Marie, pointedly looking at Gwaine out of the corner of her eye. “I’m afraid you’re not going to get anything out of this man. He’s been talking nonsense ever since he got here.”

“When did he get here?”

“Showed up two nights ago and hasn’t left since.”

John narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything.

Merlin glanced between Marie and Gwaine. As much as Gwaine was, well, _Gwaine_ , it wasn’t like him to not alert his friends about a major beast attack on the citizens of Camelot. He wouldn’t have just walked straight to the tavern and drunk himself silly. . . would he? It must have had something to do with that knight, but what, Merlin couldn’t imagine.

“Gwaine, you mentioned a knight. Who was he?”

Gwaine shrugged. “Damned if I know. I was half-uncon. . . unconsi. . . inconciouses. . . _unconscious!_ Yeah! Plus, he was taking me away from the monster, so I didn’t ask.”

John raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

“Not in the slightest. By the way—do see that pony in the corner? I’m like, ninety percent sure ponies aren’t allowed in taverns. Arthur would have its head. Or. . . someone’s head. Probably his own.” Gwaine looked wide-eyed up at Merlin. “Oh. I thought you didn’t have a head, there, for a second.” He looked away again, then jumped, as if startled. “Almost forgot about that pony. You should probably get it out.” Gwaine gestured lazily to the corner of the room. Merlin turned. There was no pony.

John coughed uncomfortably and glanced at his practically untouched ale. “Merlin, I think we should go. He’s no help to us right now.”

John turned to leave. Merlin paused, glancing uncertainly between Gwaine and John. With a sigh, he turned to follow John out of the pub. “Have a nice night!” Marie called from behind them. Merlin waved back to her as the door swung shut.

* * *

 “A fomorroh? Why would you need me to numb one of those?” Gaius arched a wary eyebrow.

Sherlock tapped his finger on his pant leg and looked Gaius up and down. He didn’t know how close this man was to the king, or how much Sherlock could trust him to keep any sort of secret, so he reeled off, “We have suspicions that the murderer is using the fomorroh somehow to kill their victims. We’re on the trail of someone who we believe to be under the control of a fomorroh, so if you could just help us get it out, then-”

“If we take it out, it will only grow back. I will be able to numb it for a time if you bring whoever it is to me, but the mother beast is what we really need to kill in order to-”

“I know, I know, that’s what Merlin said.” Sherlock tapped his temples with his forefingers and stared concentratedly at the floor. “If we have him here by tomorrow, will you be ready?” Sherlock was already starting to head towards the door.

Gaius looked around at his patients. Sherlock followed his gaze, though he’d taken in everything about the two upon his arrival. Garman was asleep and no longer pale. He was recovering surprisingly—perhaps suspiciously—fast.

Sally, the woman lying in the cot across the room, was strangely stiff on account of her paralyzed state. Her ankles were grey and her hand seemed to clutch something that wasn’t there. She did not move at all; not even to breathe, as Garman did.

Gaius cleared his throat. “I’ll be busy, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ll have Merlin help me when he gets back tonight.”

Sherlock nodded and whisked out of the room, eyes trained on the floor as his mind filtered through all the ways they could capture Arthur.

Pattering footsteps coming towards him broke his train of thought. He looked up to see a flushed, blonde woman running towards him. She skidded to a stop and pulled on his arm.

“Sir! Oh, please, sir, help me! My son’s fell in a well!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell, this is our first time writing Sherlock’s point of view, so if anyone has any constructive criticism to better capture his character, that’d be greatly appreciated. He’s just harder to write since he thinks in a way that’s different from any other character.  
> Regardless, something tells me you guys are really gonna like the next two chapters ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less than a week! We’re doing amazing! However, although we can’t promise next month will be as update packed, we assure that this story will definitely be finished without another year or month-wait in between chapters, God willing.  
> Queue: Or should I say Fluffy willing.  
> Fluffy: Now, now, it’s not a good idea to compare me to our lord and savior, but I appreciate the compliment :D  
> Queue: Touché. You’re getting better at this.  
> Fluffy: Getting better at what?  
> Queue: . . . Nevermind.

****Sherlock felt his heart rate increase as he ran, surprisingly having trouble keeping pace with the blonde woman. Night had fallen as he’d been talking to Gaius, and he kept his senses acute to catch sight of dark logs and patches of mud. As he ran through the sleeping village, he thought the woman over.

She was nothing extraordinary; anyone else might have mistaken her for an average peasant. Her hair was knotted and frizzy, matching the wild look in her eyes. According to her fast pace, he concluded that she must have been desperate. But for what reason? She was a bad actress, and Sherlock was no amateur; he knew no son of hers was in the bottom of any well. The real reason he’d followed her was to find out what she was hiding.

“Hurry!” she called back. “He’s just through these trees—oh, God, I hope he hasn’t drowned-”

Sherlock peered over her shoulder, spotting the outline of an old stone well beyond some bushes. He pushed himself forward, rushing towards the well and skidding to a stop before looking inside. He felt it best to play along for now.

“Hello?” he called down. He listened for any sign of movement or a response, but the water was calm below.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, whipping back around towards the blonde woman. “There’s no boy in there.” He pointed behind himself as he spoke.

Her whole demeanor seemed to change upon that sentence. She straightened her back, and her eyes changed from panicked to cold. The worried lines on her forehead disappeared as her expression went slack. “I know.” Her voice had a trace of smugness in it. Instantly, Sherlock knew why she’d brought him out here. He felt a wave of satisfaction pass over him; it was the feeling he always got when he was close to solving a case.

“Seems like extra work, bringing me all the way out here to kill me,” Sherlock commented, being careful to face her and keep his expression cool. “I’m sure you could have found a much easier way to kill me in town.”

The shape-shifter smirked. “Who said I intended to kill you?”

“Something told me this wasn’t just a pleasant forest stroll.”

A titter of laughter. “What gave it away?”

“I have several. Would you like me to list all of them, or just-”

She rolled her eyes as he talked, and did not hesitate to interrupt him, “Funny, how much they talk about how smart you are. I'm not really seeing it.”

“Oh?”

“Because, you see, you're standing with your back towards a well that has walls shorter than your knees.”

Although she presented it as a simple fact, Sherlock realized the warning too late. Just as he tried to leap out of the way, Sherlock felt an invisible blast force him backwards. He was carried in the air for a moment, but then his heel caught on the edge of the stone wall and there was a stomach-dropping sensation as he began to plummet below ground. As he was immersed in even deeper darkness than the night above, his hands groped at the damp stone on either side of him, but he wasn’t sure it was doing much to stop his acceleration toward the black water below.

Luckily, the water at the bottom was no deeper than his waste. Unluckily, he felt a sickening crack as he fell into it. A searing-hot pain spread through his foot a moment later. It took all of his willpower not to cry out as his face contorted in pain.

He gingerly situated his weight onto one leg before slowly lifting his chin to look back up at the circle of star-dotted sky above. The shape-shifter was leaning over the low stone wall and stared down at him, her expression indiscernible as all he could see the silhouette of the moon shining through her hair. It didn’t look frizzy like before.

“I'm disappointed, honestly.” She sighed. “I apologize for not having smaller expectations for the great _Sherlock Holmes_.” She spat the name out as if it were poisoned.

Sherlock narrowed his concentration past the throbbing pain in his foot, knowing this conversation would be his chance to be able to track her down later. “I can climb out of here, you know.” He knew with his foot he wouldn't be able to do it quickly, but he also knew there was a village nearby; surely he wouldn't be in here past tomorrow morning.

“Maybe. But not fast enough to save your friend.”

Sherlock felt his blood freeze, and he didn't think it had anything to do with the water lapping at his sides. “What?”

“Isn't he you  _only_ friend? It really shouldn't be hard to figure out,” she chided.

_John._

“What are-”

“Oh, I'll tell you,” she declared gleefully. “By the time you get out of here, they’ll probably be making a coffin for him. Lucky man. My sister. . .” She interrupted herself, “Anyway, I’ve always thought coffin making would be a very dependable job. People never do stop dying.”

“Thanks to you,” said Sherlock sourly.

The shape-shifter clucked her tongue. “All that _I’ve_ done is thanks to _you_. Besides, I was in the middle of something. I was saying about coffin making. It’s more dependable than detective work, by any account. I mean, look where that’s gotten you. In the bottom of a well, with no hope of saving your only friend-”

“You can’t do this.” Sherlock desperately grabbed a hold of one of the stones, only for it to slip out of his grip when he tried to pull himself up. He heard the stone fall into the water with a _plunk_.

“Who’s stopping me? You?” Her sickening laugh rang down the well, reverberating around until it filled Sherlock’s head. It was a hollow sound, but at the same time it was full; devoid of love and teeming with hate.

Sherlock didn't reply. He focused only on trying to get a grip on the stones, but to no avail.

Her laughter slowly subsided, but it was still in her voice as she spoke. “Have fun down there,” she said patronizingly. “I’m off to have some fun of my own.”

With that, there was the crunching sound of running footsteps, and she was gone.

* * *

 

John closed the chamber door to his tower room, slowly so the hinges didn't creak. To his surprise, Sherlock was still out, despite the moon being high and bright in the sky. John shook his head, but knew Sherlock hardly ever arrived when he was expected, so John put any hint of worry out of his mind. Instead, he headed over to his bed, eagerly anticipating its soft mattress. Out of all three night’s he’d been on this Camelot case, he hadn’t yet been acquainted with his own sheets. In fact, this was the first time he’d been in his chambers at all since dropping off his bags.

John had just started to loosen his belt when a quiet series of clattering sounds came from behind the curtain across the room.

John glanced up at the window. _Did something just hit-?_

The pattering noise came again.

With narrowed eyes, John walked over to the window, his hand drifting instinctively to his sword. He pulled the curtains open a few inches with his free hand and peered down at the courtyard, spotting a familiar curly-haired figure stooping back down to grab another handful of pebbles. Sherlock stood and waved upon seeing John’s face at the window.

John groaned and pinched his nose, scrunching his eyes shut. _For Christ’s sake. . ._

Sherlock was gesturing frantically towards him, and John had to restrain himself from replying with an obscene gesture before closing the curtains. What could the man possibly want that couldn't be discussed in their quarters? With a heavy sigh, John headed back to the door, casting one last forlorn glance at his bed before stepping out onto the stairs.

By the time he had reached the courtyard’s entrance, there was no sign of Sherlock. John frowned. It had _seemed_ urgent. . .

He glanced around, trying to spot Sherlock through the night, wondering why his friend’s choice of clothing _had_ to be so dark in color. John wandered under the ramparts, eyes peeled for any hint of movement. As he glanced around, he saw in the distance Merlin exiting the forest and heading towards the castle entrance and holding a large pale root. _At least_ someone _was having a successful night._

_Clack._

John glanced down to where a rock lay that he swore hadn't been there before. Too late, John looked up to see a hooded figure atop the ramparts and a dark mass of stone wall crumbling towards him, He swore he heard shouting somewhere in the distance, but he was unsure if it was his own.

John started to move, realizing staying put was no way to avoid being crushed, but his feet were rooted in place. He tried to look down at them, but his neck wouldn’t budge, either. He was quickly consumed by panic, which flooded over his mind, freezing it up as well.

 _I’m stuck_ , was all he could think. _I’m about to get crushed, and I’m bloody stuck._

The stones in front of him groaned. They sounded like a lion about to pounce.

* * *

 

Merlin smelled the night air, catching a whiff of the strong-smelling root he cradled in his arms. It reminded him of carrots. Or maybe it was garlic. He tilted his head with the thought, and a blur of movement in the distance caught his eye.

A shadowy figure stalked the ramparts above the courtyard. They weren’t wearing armor, and walked too stealthily to be a knight, anyway. They seemed to peer over the edge of the stone barrier, and Merlin followed their gaze to the courtyard below. Another figure was perusing the plaza below. Merlin recognized the gait as John’s.

Sizing up the situation in a matter of seconds, Merlin let the mandrake drop out of his hands as he set off at a sprint. He screamed out, but the wall was already falling. Merlin was too far away to do anything.

Unless he used magic.

Merlin wished time would slow down as he made his decision, but time never did seem to adhere to his wishes. All Merlin had time to do was see that the person on the wall was about to jump off the far side; a murderer was about to get away. But he also saw that John would be crushed under the weight of hundreds of tons of stone if Merlin didn’t interfere.

Merlin stretched his arm forward and whispered a spell under his breath, his voice growing in volume and speed with each word as he gained confidence with his decision. Whether it was the right one or not, he couldn’t change it now.

His eyes flashed golden and the shattered wall was held suspended, crumbled rock hovering feet above John’s head. Merlin panted and clenched his fist, his head throbbing with the concentration needed to hold the spell in place. A vein at his temple pulsed visibly with the strain.

For whatever reason, John wasn't moving out of the way. Was he paralyzed?

Merlin saw dots enter his vision and he choked, his throat contracting with the effort to keep the wall levitated. His footsteps grew sluggish, soon in time with his slowly throbbing headache.

“John,” he mustered as he fell to his knees. With a final burst of strength, he cast a spell to divert the pounds of stone from falling where John stood. Then Merlin felt the spell disappear from the atmosphere and he gulped for air, his muscles relaxing suddenly and blood rushing back throughout his body as his trembling arms prevented him from falling prostrate on the ground.

He clenched his jaw as he heard the stones crash to the ground. He stared at his clenched fists as they pressed into the cobblestones, scraping the skin on his knuckles. His vision grew blurry as he stared at the hands of the greatest sorcerer who would ever live; the hands of the sorcerer who had failed to get there on time.

At last, Merlin was able to look up at the pile of rubble across the courtyard. His sense returning, he forced himself to his feet and rushed to where John had been standing. The man lay mostly encased in stone, his chest down covered in grey dust and cracked rocks of varying sizes. He wasn’t moving; Merlin couldn’t tell if he was even breathing.

Merlin had to move quickly. Any number of knights could arrive at the scene at any moment and John needed to be healed. And so with shaky hands, Merlin moved the rocks off of John’s body.

When John was uncovered, Merlin knelt beside him to check for a pulse. He almost cried out in happiness when his fingers were met with a weak throb, but he didn’t let himself be overjoyed. Whatever spell was keeping John from moving was also restricting his lungs.

Merlin set his mind on freeing John from whatever spell was binding him, quickly muttering incantations under his breath, frantically searching for the counterspell. His mind galloped alongside his heart, as if they were fighting over an imaginary finish line.

Past his concentration, Merlin started to hear a rasp coming from John’s mouth. Merlin scrunched his eyes shut and a tear spilled out onto his cheek before he had the chance to wipe it away.

He heard John clear his throat. “You. . . are a blasted fool,” he said huskily.

Merlin glanced over at John’s face and lowered his eyebrows. “Why?”

“You saved _me_ when you could have caught the murderer.”

Merlin realized with a start that John had been conscious despite his paralyzation. He looked for an excuse. “Me? I-I didn’t do anything. You just. . . got lucky. The rocks-”

“I’m not an idiot, Merlin.” John tried to laugh but it turned into a cough. “I know you have magic.”

Merlin froze up for a moment before speaking. “I, er. . . You must’ve hit your head pretty hard. I should take you to Gaius, he'd know how to help you,” he stammered.

John raised his eyebrows.

Merlin’s ears roared despite the eery silence of the courtyard. Where were the guards? They would be here any moment. Did they know about his secret, too? Was everyone just playing along because he was so bad at keeping a single secret?

“How? How do you know?” Merlin stared at the ground.

“You have a suspiciously expansive knowledge of mythical creatures. You diverted arrows in Ishbayern. You saved my life just now.”

Merlin wrung his hands. How could he have been so foolish? If John had figured this out, Sherlock had to know by now. Who else had picked up on it?

John spoke up, “Why do you look so nervous? Magic isn’t-”

The sound of horse’s hooves rounding the corner interrupted John’s question.

Merlin looked up. “The guards,” he said unnecessarily.

John chuckled, not coughing this time. “Took them long enough.”

* * *

 

Despite the fact that the sun had yet to rise over the horizon, Arthur—or the fomorroh, John now new—ordered a meeting at the round table as soon as John had been examined by Gaius. Although the physician claimed he had sustained no serious injuries, it didn't mean that John didn't feel like he’d been dragged behind a horse for a day and a half.

Once everyone was accounted for—except for Gwaine, who was probably still drinking himself into a stupor, and Sherlock, who was still out doing who-knows-what—Arthur cleared his throat. “Merlin.” He whipped around to face his manservant. “What happened?”

 _The shape-shifter that's controlling you tried to kill me, that's what happened,_ John had to prevent himself from saying. Merlin stood, casting an uncertain glance towards John before speaking. “Last night, the murderer tried to kill John by crushing him with the ramparts by the courtyard. Luckily, John was able to avoid most of the stones. I got there just in time to uncover him and get him to Gaius.”

“The ramparts by the courtyard? What were you doing in the courtyard, John?”

“I thought I saw Sherlock out of my window. I know now that it was the shape-shifter, but-”

“Shape-shifter? What are you talking about?”

John grimaced, nearly biting his tongue as he realized his mistake. “It’s only a conjecture, your majesty. We’re not sure, but we think the murderer could have shape-shifting. . . capabilities.”

“How long have you known that they weren’t just a mindless beast? Your conjectures are exactly what you’re supposed to be sharing with me!” Arthur’s face was turning an alarming shade of red.

“Your majesty, Sherlock and I-”

“I have heard enough of your incompetence. Let’s see if the manservant learned anything useful last night.” Arthur turned back to Merlin. “Now, the knights said they found the guards nearest to the spot of the incident unconscious, and the knights didn’t get there until long after the wall fell.” Arthur narrowed his eyes at Merlin. “You had only just uncovered him when they got there?”

John snorted and lifted his hand, eager to give his friend credit and to renew himself in the eyes of the murderer-controlled king. “Your majesty, I’m afraid Merlin is too modest. He saved my life last night.”

Arthur looked uninterestedly back at John. “Saved you, eh? I’m not sure lifting a few rocks off of someone quite qualifies as saving.”

John shook his head. “He did more than that, Sire. He was able to divert most of the wall from falling on me.”

Arthur cocked his head to the side, suddenly giving John his full attention. “Diverted. . . a wall? How is that possible?”

John furrowed his brow and glanced at Merlin, whose eyes were wide and full of silent protest. He slowly shook his head. _What?_ mouthed John before turning back to Arthur.

“Sire, I assumed you knew.” John cast another glance at Merlin, whose entire face had turned stark white.

Arthur pounded his fist on the table. “Confound it all! Knew what?”

John swallowed, suddenly unsure in sharing the information, but he was too far in to turn back now. “Merlin saved me with his magic, Sire.”

The knights all exchanged incredulous glances as Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Leon, throw Merlin in the dungeon.”

_What?_

A blonde-haired knight—supposedly Sir Leon—quickly stood. “Sire.” He spoke hesitantly. “This is _Merlin_ we're talking about. With all due respect, John, is it possible that you misinterpreted the events?”

John looked quickly between Merlin and Arthur. He knew what he had seen, and knew that it had been magic, but he now had the feeling that this was neither the time nor place to express that. He took a deep breath. “It’s possible-”

“He’s lying,” said Arthur confidently. “First withholding evidence, and now conspiring with a sorcerer? In the heart of _my_ kingdom? Throw _him_ in the dungeon, too! I’ll deal with them both later.”

The air is the room seemed to be sparking with electricity. For a long moment, none of the knights moved. “Do I always have to repeat myself with you idiots? I said take them to the dungeon!”

Slowly, Sir Leon and Sir Percival stood, each grabbing the arm of one of the now-convicts. Despite Arthur's orders, Sir Leon’s grip wasn't very tight. “I'll see if I can talk to him later,” Leon told John once they were out of Arthur's hearing range in an almost apologetic tone. “He's not usually like this.”

John nodded, careful not to let slip anything about the fomorroh.

A few dark corridors and many stone steps later, John was introduced to the Camelot dungeons. He sniffed, taking in the scent of mold and rats. The rusted gate to John’s cell screeched as it opened, and he shivered.

Leon gave him another sympathetic look as he locked the gate. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be out of here soon.”

John exchanged a long glance with Merlin as they both took their seats on their cots. _Hopefully not to be executed_ , thought John gloomily.

John felt a draft coming from a crack in the wall behind him. Water was dripping somewhere.

“It’s going to be a long night,” sighed Merlin from the next cell over, reading John’s mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One reader asked whether or not we’re planning on writing a sequel to this story, and we thought others of you might have the same question. And our answer is that no, we don’t plan on doing a sequel to this. However, writing a one-shot or two that take place in this story’s universe before or after the events isn’t completely out of the question, for we’ve grown quite fond of this universe and we’re not sure we’ll be able to let it go right away. After this is finished, though, we’ll probably shift most of our attention to an original story of ours (of which we’ll probably do some shameless advertising on later).
> 
> As for their other question on whether or not we’re writing Gwaine out of character—well, let’s just say you should be finding out about that soon enough ;)
> 
> Fluffy: Trust me, you're gonna want to stick around for chapter twelve.  
> Queue: I normally wouldn’t advise that anyone put any amount of trust in Fluffy, but this time around I have to admit she’s right.  
> Fluffy: That chapter has existed for two yeeeaaars. I think I'm entitled to a bit of faith.  
> Queue: Perhaps if it hadn’t taken, and I quote, two yeeeaaars to get out the rest of the chapters. . .  
> Fluffy: Touché.


	12. Chapter 12

_Good, the bartender's turning around towards me. ...She's almost upon me now, and I can see… there're rainbows on her face. My God, there're rainbows everywhere!_

Gwaine backed up in terror, as the colors continued to creep from the corner of his vision until all he could see was a sheet of churning hues. Gwaine was desperate to run, but he knew deep down that he couldn't escape the oncoming storm of colors. Gwaine blinked hard, and shook his head.

When he opened his eyes again, Gwaine was relieved. The rainbows had retreated, and a dimly lit tavern replaced the colors that covered Gwaine's vision, even if it was a bit fuzzy. He squinted to see the bartender watching him as she bobbed in and out of focus.

Just to make sure that the danger was truly gone, the knight staggered to a standing position and scanned the pub for any unnaturally bright colors. However, all was rather normal; side conversations went on beside him, as if the only care these people had were how well their vegetables were growing in their gardens. Speaking of cares. . . It occurred to Gwaine that maybe he should care about his missing out on some knight meeting that Arthur had called.

_Eh._

The thought was gone as quickly as it had come. Gwaine huffed and lifted his ale to his lips before his eye caught something else.

Two—were they men or women? In any case, two people sat next to each other, and had just started conversing. Gwaine frowned. They both wore long clothing which went past their knees, and it appeared to be a cross between a rather bland dress and a coat. One dress-coat was a light brown, however, while the other was more of a tan.

It took about five seconds for Gwaine to decide to introduce himself and determine their genders.

"Hey," he said right as he sauntered over to the seat next to the light brown dress-coated man. _Oh. They were both men._ Gwaine frowned. "You are not ladies," Gwaine slurred, looking them both over.

"And you are not sober."

That was tan dress-coat man. Gwaine raised an eyebrow at him. His voice was almost unnaturally deep, and his clothes and accent both supported the towards the theory that he was foreign. He was wearing— _wait, is that a blue ribbon around his neck?_ —a white shirt and black pants, and Gwaine managed to notice his very blue eyes. His hair was messy, as if he'd forgotten to comb out his bed head. Gwaine decided to mentally dub him Scruffy.

"Yeah, well. . ." Gwaine scratched the back of head. "Neither is your mother."

"I never had a mother."

"Yeah, cause she's probably your bloody sister." Gwaine paused to rethink his statement, furrowing his brow, then shrugged internally.

"I can understand why you may think that. Royal lines _are_ very inbred these days."

The other, light brown dress-coated man's brown eyes widened at their exchange, but he said nothing. His hair was brown and all sticky-uppy, a gravity-defying feat that puzzled Gwaine, but he was still too loopy to care. He wore a blue shirt and pants, and his shoes were a strange combination of red and white.

"Nah," Gwaine drawled, his head dropping, but he managed to lift it up before it banged on the table. "Sure, I'm a knight. But that's 'cause I'm just _really good_ at my job, and they couldn't _not_ make me a knight. My mother and father were just normal peasants."

The other man—not Scruffy—perked up at this. "Really?" he wondered, staring at Gwaine closely. Huh. His accent sounded more native. "What's your name?"

"I'm-" Gwaine hiccuped "-I'm Gwaine."

The man pursed his lips in an almost impressed sort of way. "Gwaine? _Sir_ Gwaine?"

Gwaine winked. "The one and only. Why? You heard of me? Who _are_ you, anyway? Are you an evil murdering magical beast? Or better yet, is your name Keemera?" He'd been trying to figure out who she was every since he'd heard her name.

The man blinked in confusion before extending his hand and saying, "Last time I checked, my name was the Doctor."

Gwaine just stared at the hand. "Why do you have six fingers?"

The Doctor frowned.

Gwaine cocked his head to the side, looking intently at the Doctor's hand. "Scratch that. Eight fingers. You should probably get that checked out by a doctor. Oh, wait." Gwaine snickered at his own joke as his vision went in and out of focus. The Doctor slowly pulled his hand back.

"Yup," the Doctor said, popping the 'p' and turning to Scruffy. "Very intoxicated indeed."

Gwaine furrowed his brow in indignation and looked away, flipping his hair and the process. He was only half paying attention to Scruffy and the Doctor's conversation.

"So… All I know about you is the fact that you're not from this time period and you have no mother. What is it then? Clone batch? More importantly, what are you here for?" the Doctor asked Scruffy in a low tone.

Scruffy hesitated before replying in his rough voice, "I come from the year two thousand and nine. I came in search for a weapon; a powerful, legendary weapon that can kill a creature beyond your basic human comprehension."

"I may let you leave with that statement," the Doctor said with a pause, "if I were human."

Gwaine raised his eyebrows at the Doctor. _Not human?_ That was weird. He didn't know anyone who wasn't human. Except for the alleged Keemera, who he still wasn't sure about.

Scruffy narrowed his eyes at the Doctor, before a look of understanding crossed his face and he let out a bedraggled sigh. "I'm weaker than I anticipated," he muttered to himself.

The Doctor reached into his dress-coat pocket before pulling out— _oh holy mother of apples it's a magic wand_ —and pointing it at Scruffy, simultaneously glowing blue and making a buzzing noise.

_Oh wait, the blue light is pretty. Magic is scary. It's safe,_ Gwaine reasoned.

The Doctor stared at the magic wand-like thing with a puzzled expression. "Strange," he commented. "I haven't met anyone like you before. You're native to this planet, but not human. Very powerful." The Doctor frowned and glanced at the strange device before adding, "Or should be."

"I was drained, coming here," Scruffy explained. "I was unconscious for over a week upon arriving. I'd be lucky to survive the trip home."

"What kind of weapon would be worth coming all this way running almost on empty?"

"Excalibur," Scruffy answered without missing a beat.

" _Excalibur_ ," Gwaine muttered under his breath. _What's an excalibur?_ It was a pretty dumb name for a weapon. Whatever it was, the Doctor seemed to recognize it.

The Doctor squinted his eyes. "What are you? What is your mission?"

"I am an angel. Castiel. And I'm going to help my friends kill the Devil."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "An angel. _The_ Devil," he repeated incredulously. Scruffy—no, _Castiel_ —just nodded.

"Well, you can't use the sword. Not now. It has an important role to play soon."

"I don't think you understand," Castiel growled, locking gazes with the Doctor. "We are up against Lucifer himself. Do you have _any_ idea of the casualties there'll be if I _don't_ do this?"

"Do you have any idea of the consequences if you _do_ do this?" the Doctor countered. Gwaine giggled. _Do do_.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "You can't stop me."

"Don't underestimate me," the Doctor said quietly, but the tone in his voice was no less dangerous. "I am over nine hundred years old, and I come from the planet Gallifrey. I am the last of the Time Lords, and this planet is under _my_ protection.

"I can help you. With. . . With Lucifer, if that's what you think you're dealing with. But I can't let you take this sword."

Castiel just shook his head. "No. This isn't your fight." Castiel paused, as if considering the Doctor's words, before declaring, "I will leave in the morning. _Without_ the sword."

The Doctor looked relieved, but worry quickly flashed across his face. "You said it's unlikely you'll survive the trip home. I can take you."

_Why are they still talking when there's a pony in the corner?_ Gwaine wondered. It couldn't be safe to have a pony wandering freely in a tavern, and that was Gwaine's job as a knight: to keep people safe. Or something like that.

Castiel looked grateful. "Thank you. I was-"

He was interrupted when Gwaine belched loudly. " _Look_ at that pony. Why is that man bringing a pony in here? _No ponies allowed._ " Gwaine pointed a shaky finger to the corner of the pub. The Doctor cast a quick glance behind him before sighing. "How many beers have you had?"

" _Pssh_ , I don't know." Gwaine shrugged and swung his head around to look at the bartender. "Can I have another one?"

The woman approached him, and turned so that she had her back to the tavern as she poured his drink. She turned back around and passed it to him, and he gripped it tightly as he took a few gulps, streams of foam running down the sides of his chin.

He wiped his face with one hand and pointed at her lazily with the other, actually a few inches off. "Is it just me, or did you have short, red hair yesterday?"

She bobbed in and out of focus as she reached up to twist a long strand of her blonde hair around her finger. She hesitated before answering, "It's just you. That's your last drink for today, all right?"

"Yeah, yeah." Gwaine swung back around, sloshing some of his beer onto the seat where the Doctor had been sitting. Gwaine's face made an exaggerated expression of confusion as he scanned the tavern for him. He caught sight of a very blurry and colorful pair of men about to step out of the doors.

"Wait!" Gwaine called. "Aren't you gonna do something about the pony?" Gwaine pointed frantically to where the 'pony' was standing.

The Doctor sighed, then he froze in his tracks, causing Castiel to almost crash into him. The Doctor spun around and was almost immediately back at Gwaine's side. Gwaine blinked.

"Come to say goodbye to this pretty face?"

"You've _only_ had beers, right? Nothing else?"

"Yeah. . ." Gwaine said before remembering. He stuck with his answer when he realized he _couldn't_ remember.

The Doctor turned towards Castiel. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but last time I checked, alcohol doesn't cause hallucinations."

Castiel frowned. "You're right. It doesn't." Castiel took a step towards Gwaine and pressed two fingers against his forehead.

Gwaine furrowed his brow. "Um, what was that?"

"I'm too weak," Castiel said, pulling away.

The Doctor reached into his pocket, rummaging around with a look of concentration on his face. Finally, he pulled out what appeared to be a vial of purple liquid.

"Here," he said, passing it to Gwaine. "This will get rid of the effects caused by practically any drug in a matter of seconds."

Gwaine stared at the vial suspiciously, but when he looked up again, the two strange men were gone, and the door was swaying. Shrugging, Gwaine lifted the vial to his lips and gulped.

The effect was almost instantaneous. It felt as if a film had been lifted from his vision, and he could suddenly form full sentences in his mind. He turned to the corner of the pub; the pony was no longer there.

_Holy shite._ Gwaine had to restrain himself from whirling around and punching the bartender in the face as his memory came rushing back. Instead, he took a deep breath and decided to follow the two mysterious men.

Gwaine jumped to his feet and ran out the door. Looking down, he saw two sets of fresh footprints leading away from the pub and around the corner. Gwaine ran after the footprints, taking sharp turns left and right until he found himself in a dark alleyway.

His eyes scanned the tracks, until they just. . . stopped. A large square-shaped imprint was pressed into the ground. The footprints led up to it, but it was as if they had stepped in the square and disappeared. Listening closely, Gwaine swore he could hear a faint _vworp vworp_ noise echoing on the alleyway walls.

Gwaine stood there for what could have been a minute or thirty, processing what had happened. He had been drugged. Edgar was dead. And the killer-

Slowly, he reached out into his pocket, pulled out the glass vial, not completely empty, and stared at it. It was the only proof that the two men—if they even _were_ men—had ever been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C u later


	13. Chapter 13

**APRIL FOOLS!**

**(kind of) (and yes, it is a** **_bit_ ** **late)**

**We hope you noticed the date of publication for the last chapter, or else you might be very, very confused. And if you still are, we don’t blame you.**

**The events of the last chapter are still, however, semi-canon to our fanfic. See, Gwaine** **_is_ ** **now un-potion-ified, but we’ll leave it up to your interpretation whether or not Cas and the Doctor were really there.**

**Now that you have an explanation for “Chaporer tWelbw,” here’s** **_this_ ** **chapter, no strings attached.**

* * *

 

_ Clop clop, clop clop _ . 

Garman stared at the ground, allowing himself to fall into the rhythm of the monotonous sound of the horse’s hooves on the dirt path, trying not to think too much about getting home. As he’d lain in Gaius’ chambers, he’d had plenty of time to reflect between bouts of unconsciousness. He’d run through the scenario of his brother’s death, analyzing a thousand times every moment he could have done something more to prevent it. Three clammy nights and delirious days of this, and then Gaius had declared him fit enough to make the trip home he was on now, as long as he rewrapped his side regularly and kept off his feet. Garman knew he’d made a speedy recovery, and accounted it some on the sweet-tasting mixtures Gaius had fed him, though Garman wasn’t sure if he’d imagined them or not.

Despite his physical regeneration and the fact that he was going home, the hollow feeling in his gut made Garman feel less than whole. Garman wasn’t even sure that, as long as his brother was buried there, he would ever feel at home in his own village again.

But at the same time, Garman wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed and sleep, even if Edgar would not be sleeping in the identical straw mattress across the room ever again.

Garman wasn’t so damaged that he wasn’t thankful, though. He was especially thankful for the rock in his left boot that dug into his heel. Its physical presence distracted him from the bitter thoughts he could feel pressing on his mind on all sides, ever-present.

His horse halted suddenly, jerking him forward, and bent its head to drink out of stale-looking puddle of brown water on the side of the forest trail. Wrinkling his nose, Garman yanked up on the reins. Spotting a well through the trees up ahead, Garman dismounted the horse and patted its neck. “We can do better than a puddle,” he said, leading it forward by the reigns.

As he reached the well and began to lower the bucket, it occurred to him how refreshing it was to be doing a menial task that occupied his brain and muscles. He was able to focus on the creaking sound of the rope and the squeaking metal-

“ _ Hey! _ ”

Garman’s head whipped up, and he released the wooden handle of the crank. The wood clattered around as the bucket fell to the bottom as he scanned the forest around him, searching for the source of the voice.

There was a thunking noise from the bottom of the well, quickly followed by a series of splashing noises and curses.

Garman flinched and crept to the wall of the well, peering over.

“How… Who-”

“Grab that rope!” a deep voice called from the bottom of the well. Garman narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher anything in the darkness of the well. 

“But who-”

“I don’t have time to answer questions!” the voice snapped. “I have hold of the rope. Pull me up!”

“Okay, okay!” Garman sputtered, grabbing hold of the crank. He began turning it, clenching his teeth at the new resistance. 

By the time a head of black, sopping-wet hair was visible over the side of the stone wall, Garman’s muscles ached from the effort. He carefully reached over and grabbed ahold of the man’s forearm, keeping a trembling hold on the crank with his other hand. The man’s slippery hand grasped at Garman’s arm in turn, and Garman’s face paled at the sight of the man’s bloody fingernails. The man’s fingers were scraped and his sleeves tattered.

Garman tried not to stare as he struggled with the weight. With a sudden heave, he yanked the man over the wall, transitioning the weight from one arm to the other. The stranger rolled over the stones and collapsed with a squelching sound. 

Garman cleared his throat. “How long have you-”   
  
The man turned his head to look at Garman’s face and frowned, surprised. “Garman?” 

“How do you-”

“Nevermind.” The man shook his head, attempting to get to his feet. Garman let out a breath upon noticing the man’s twisted ankle. 

“Are you-”

“Can I use your horse?”

Garman watched the man limp over to the horse. “No, I have to-”

“Thanks for the help.” With his good foot, the man hoisted himself over the saddle and kicked the horse’s flank, causing it to take off back in the direction from which Garman had just come.

Garman blinked in shock. “Wait,” he said weakly. He took a few steps, then broke into a sprint. “Wait!” he called again when the man showed no intent of stopping. 

“It’s still thirsty!”

* * *

 

Gwaine’s heart raced as he pushed past carts and people, barely able to accelerate to a jog, it was so crowded. He clenched his teeth in frustration. He had to get to the castle. He had to get more knights and bring that murderer to justice. However, with every step he took, there seemed to be ten convincing arguments to run in the opposite direction.

_ It’s too far-fetched. No one will ever believe me. Hell, can I even believe it myself? They think I’ve been drunk this whole time, anyway. I  _ was _ drunk that first day. Why did I have to do that? And what will they think of me, unable to save just two people from a Chimera? _

Gwaine chuckled under his breath despite himself.  _ Keemera. _

Gwaine looked up, feeling a rush of frustration at how slow he was moving. Couldn’t the people ahead of him see he had somewhere to be?

He was about to order them out of the way in the name of the king, when he caught the eye of Percival from across the street. 

He initial reaction was relief, until the man began to wade across the sea of bodies with aggressive force. Gwaine did not like the look of the expression on his face.

Percival stopped a foot or two from where Gwaine stood. Annoyed passersby flowed around the two rooted figures. Percival stared at him with his arms crossed. His jaw popped. 

Gwaine cleared his throat, and said as urgently as he could muster, “Percival! We have to-”

Percival grabbed the front of Gwaine’s shirt suddenly, barking, “Where the bloody hell have you been?!”

The people rushing past picked up their pace. “Look, mate-” Gwaine started, trying to pull back.

“It’s not beyond me to have a few rounds once in awhile. More than a few. But this? It’s been  _ three days _ !”

“Perc-”

Percival shook his head. “Who am I kidding? You’re probably drunk as a bat even now.”

Gwaine stepped out of Percival’s grip and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the grease and realizing he must have looked a mess. “I’m sober now. I can promise you that. Now, you have to listen to me!”

“Listen to  _ you _ ? I’ve been waiting to give you a piece of my mind ever since you missed the first meeting!”

Gwaine grabbed Percival by the shoulders. “This is important. I know who the murderer is. She drugged me. That’s where I’ve been.”

Percival shrugged his hands off. “Look, Gwaine, being drunk for three days is one thing. But coming up with a lie like that, just to keep your rep-”

Gwaine clenched his fists. “Won’t you listen to me? I’m not lying! Don’t you trust me?”

Percival glowered. “Come on now, let’s not bring trust into all of this. You were gone for three days. That’s all I know.”

Gwaine looked to the castle and wondered again if anyone there would believe him. He grit his teeth. They had to. If they wanted to catch the murderer, they had to believe him.

Gwaine pushed past Percival. “I don’t have time for this.” He felt a grab at his shoulder, but pulled away and dived into the crowd. Gwaine plowed through the mass of people, ducking between bodies. He focused on gaps in the flow of people, urging himself toward them, but they always closed up with the sway of the current. Cussing fluently under his breath, he doubled his concentration and pushed forward, feeling like a salmon pushing upstream.

He heard several indistinguishable shouts from behind him and the crowd around him began to push to either side of the road. A clacking sound raised over the noise of the street, growing ever nearer, and Gwaine saw all the faces around him turning to see what it was before diving out of the way. He furrowed his brow and turned.

A horse advanced up the street, galloping past the masses of people that had leapt out of its way. The man atop the horse was comically wet but his face was stern with determination. An idea popped into Gwaine’s head.

“Hey!” He called. The horse was getting closer by the second. “Down here!”

The rider’s blue-green eyes flicked down at him. His dark eyebrows raised when he saw Gwaine had no intention of getting out of the way, and he pulled up on the reins. 

Gwaine breathed a sigh of relief and triumph. 

“Out of the way!” the man demanded. Gwaine shook his head.

“I need to borrow your horse,” he said firmly, then hastily added, “in the name of the king.”

The rider frowned. “What are you? A knight?” he called. The masses of people around them were already stirring into motion again, a few of them staying to take in the conversation.

“My name is Sir Gwaine.”

The corners of the man’s lips raised slightly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He looked towards the castle, anxiety creeping back into his features. “I don’t have time for this. Get on.”

“You’re going to the castle?” Gwaine rounded the horse and took his place behind the man.

The man didn’t bother to answer. Instead he kicked his horse, jolting them forward.

“Who are you, anyway?” Gwaine called over the sound of wind rushing past them.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’re Holmes? I pictured you more. . . dry.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, only picked up the pace.

Gwaine wrapped a forearm around Sherlock’s waist to steady himself. “Why are you in such a hurry? Not that I’m complaining,” he promptly added.

“John is in grave danger. Who knows where he is by now.”

“John? You mean the mate who came to see me at the tavern?” Gwaine furrowed his brow. “What sort of danger?”

“Someone threatened to kill him two nights ago. I’ve been in a. . . compromising situation since then—this is the soonest I could get here.”

“Someone? Does this someone happen to, you know, run a tavern, have shapeshifting capabilities, go by the name Marie. . .” Gwaine drawled casually. Inside, his heart was racing. He closed his eyes, waiting for Sherlock’s response.

Sherlock’s upper body stiffened under Gwaine’s arm. “Shapeshifter?” He paused. “Did you say Marian?”

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. “No, it was Marie. And is that a yes?” He shivered as a slow wave of relief passed over him. Sherlock was believing him. 

“Short for Marian,” Gwaine thought he heard Sherlock mutter. Then Sherlock said aloud, “That’s where you’ve been?”

“Yes! She-” Gwaine started excitedly, but they rounded the corner into the courtyard, then, and the words caught in his throat.

A mountain of rubble and dust was strewn from where one rampart had once been.  The grassy fields beyond the yawning gap in the wall’s stones were in full view. Twenty or so sweaty men were hauling the wreckage into wooden carts.

_ I leave them alone for  _ three  _ days _ . . . thought Gwaine.

Sherlock urged the horse closer and called to one of the workers, “What happened here?”

The man straightened and wiped his gleaming forehead with his already sweat-stained shirt collar. “Apparently someone-or-other tried to kill that Watson fellow and now both him and Merlin are in the dungeon for. . .” the man squinted his eyes as he tried to remember, “‘Sorcery’ and ‘withholding information.’”

“ _ Arthur _ threw  _ Merlin _ in the dungeon?” scoffed Gwaine. “For withholding information?”

“No, no, no, you’ve got it backwards. Merlin’s the sorcerer, Watson the traitor.”

“Merlin? A sorcerer?” Gwaine stared at the man incredulously. “What’s gotten into Arthur?”

“More than you might think,” murmured Sherlock.

“I’m just repeatin’ what I’ve heard said, sir.”

“So John’s in the dungeon? Alive?” Sherlock asked the worker, sounding relieved.

The worker nodded and leaned back over the pick up a chunk of debris.

Sherlock barely gave Gwaine enough time to thank the man before spurring the horse forward to the castle.

They dismounted and headed for the steps, walking with a quick limp. Gwaine trailed behind the cloaked detective. Halfway up the steps, Sherlock turned suddenly, and Gwaine nearly ran into him.

Sherlock fixed him with a look that Gwaine couldn’t identify. “Didn’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Well, seeing as you’re probably the only person who will believe me about where I’ve been, I  _ am _ where I need to be.”

Sherlock seemed to ponder for a moment before grabbing Gwaine’s elbow and yanking him behind a pillar. He glanced around as he spoke. “Listen, this is going to sound hard to believe, but I have reason to suspect that your king’s will is not his own at the moment.” He paused, looking up at Gwaine.

Gwaine nodded his head. “Okay. So what do we do?”

Sherlock frowned, as if unable to tell if Gwaine was being sarcastic or not. “You see, there’s a species of magical snake called the fomorroh, whose severed head is able to-”

“Look, all this magical creature stuff goes straight over my head,” Gwaine interrupted quickly. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

Sherlock seemed to be recalculating, his eyes squinting at Gwaine. He took a quick breath in and said smoothly, “Arthur is priority. We need to knock him out and get him to Gaius.”

“Sounds simple enough,” said Gwaine.

* * *

 

Gwaine stood outside the door to Arthur’s chambers, pressing his ear against the wood as Sherlock paced by his side, keeping an eye out for any potential guards. “I think he’s alone. . .” Gwaine pondered quietly, kneeling and attempting to peek through the crack between the door and the floor. “He’s not talking to anyone, so I think-”

“All right, remember the plan?” Sherlock asked Gwaine, fixing him with a glance as Gwaine stood up and moved out of the way of the door.

Gwaine nodded slowly. “Yeah, you’re going to-”

Without warning, Sherlock took a deep breath and burst the door open. Gwaine heard from his place pressed against the wall Sherlock panting heavily as if he’d just sprinted to Arthur’s corridors. 

Cursing under his breath, Gwaine leaned closer to the open doorframe, attempting to look around the corner and determine when he’d be able to slip in without Arthur noticing. Through his narrow field of vision, Gwaine saw Arthur stand from his desk, nearly jumping back at Sherlock’s sudden appearance. “ _ What _ are you-”

“I found it!” Sherlock announced. “I know who the shapeshifter is.”

For a moment, a look of unease crossed Arthur’s face, but it was gone so quickly Gwaine thought he could’ve imagined it. “Who is it?”

Sherlock began pacing, heading over to the dressing screen and yanked it around so the inside faced the room. The man did an impressive job of masking his limp.

“See this bloodstain? This indicates that while you were gone, someone was attacked, if not murdered, right here. Since you didn’t mention it to us, it must mean that you didn’t know about it. The only other person with obvious access to your chambers is. . .” Sherlock trailed off, looking at Arthur expectantly, whose eyes were following Sherlock like a hawk as the black-clad detective paraded around the room. 

Arthur stepped in closer, his back now facing the door. “Merlin.” 

Slowly, Gwaine inched forward, stepping into the room. All of Arthur’s attention seemed to be on the detective. Gwaine bent down and reached for the metal water pitcher that was stood on the floor near the table, keeping his gaze trained on Arthur. He crept forward, impressed that Sherlock didn’t even glance in his direction.

“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed, spinning around to face the king. “Merlin must be in league with this shapeshifter; after all, warlocks tend to conspire together.”

Arthur was nodding. “Words taken from my own dear father’s mouth.” 

Gwaine felt his stomach churn at this warped version of Arthur. Suddenly, Gwaine lunged forward, swinging the pitcher towards Arthur’s head, knocking the king to the ground with a loud clang, accompanied by splashes of water gushing from the pitcher.

Sherlock opened his mouth to comment, but was interrupted by a groan from Arthur as the king struggled to push himself up from where he lay on his stomach. He got halfway before his feet slipped in the water and he dove headfirst back on the ground.

Gwaine snorted in laughter but cut himself off after meeting Sherlock’s alarmed stare. They hadn’t counted on the king’s regaining consciousness in their plan. 

Sherlock looked the closest to panicked Gwaine had seen him, which was still not much less than serious. “Hit him again!”

Arthur had finally planted his feet on the ground, but was still buckled over. He began to charge at Gwaine like a bull, but his eyes widened when Gwaine began to pull the pitcher back to swing again. 

“Wait!” Arthur began to slide, practically diving towards Gwaine by now. “I’m your king! You can’t-”

_ Clank _ . The pitcher met with Arthur’s temple again, and he was sent sprawling against the wall, the slippery water aiding his journey there.

Gwaine approached the fallen king slowly, hissing through his teeth upon seeing the small trickle of blood dripping from Arthur’s forehead. The king’s chest rose and fell steadily, but he was out cold. Gwaine smiled guiltily at Sherlock with a small shrug, who replied with a long breath as he ran his hands through his still slightly damp hair.

Gwaine looked at the pitcher still clutched in his hands and chuckled. “You’d better be right about this.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queue: Nous n’avons rien dire, et le chapitre vous y est! Bon appétit.
> 
> Fluffy: Habla Español, por favor. No puedo comprender. A pesar de todo, ¡divertirse!

" _Gaius? Is it done?_ "

" _Be patient, Gwaine; this isn't a permanent solution._ "

". . . _That's disgusting._ "

" _. . . There. He should have a maximum of twelve hours before the fomorroh regains control._ "

Arthur groaned and smacked his lips, rolling over. Was that Merlin talking to someone? He thought he'd made it clear that not just anyone was allowed to wander into the king's quarters, let alone wake him with their chatter. Arthur reached for his blankets, only for his hands to grasp a cold, hard table.

_What in God's name-_

Arthur jerked, sitting up as quickly as he could and reaching for an absent sword. The moment he sat up, pain pricked his vision as all the blood in his body seemed to rush to his head at once. Arthur rolled his eyes and his head felt unsteady for a few moments before he brought his hand up to rub his temples. Did he hit his head recently? He couldn't remember.

He opened his eyes, his vision adjusting to pick out Gaius, whose brow was furrowed with concern. Arthur frowned and tucked in his chin, glancing around himself.

" _Gaius?_  What's going on?" He turned, managing to make out two figures beside him. "Gwaine? And. . . Who the hell are  _you?_ "

The stranger narrowed his eyes. He was pale, with dark, curly hair, and distinctly high cheekbones. Arthur racked his brain for a name to place the face with, but his mind was blank.

The stranger studied him carefully. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Arthur huffed. "I was. . . in my chambers- wait. Why do you want to know? Who  _are_  you?"

To Arthur's annoyance, he didn't respond but instead exchanged a long glance with Gaius and Gwaine.

"Does memory loss usually happen with a fomorroh?" Gwaine asked Gaius under his breath.

"You did hit him on the head a bit more than necessary," Gaius pointed out. "But I've only dealt with a fomorroh once before. Memory loss was a side effect then also."

"I'm right here, you know," Arthur snapped. "What's a fomorroh? Where's Merlin?"

Gaius studied him with a raised eyebrow. "You threw him in the dungeon, Sire."

" _What?_  Don't be ridiculous. I would  _never_ -" Arthur broke off after realizing that neither Gwaine nor the stranger seemed surprised at this claim. After a long pause, he asked, "Why did I throw Merlin in the dungeon? More importantly, why don't I have any memory of doing it?"

"You were under the control of a fomorroh," Gaius explained slowly. "Your will was not your own. Merlin is in the dungeon because you claimed that he possessed magic."

Arthur gaped, trying to wrap his head around what he had just heard. Why would he—or not he, apparently—want Merlin in the dungeon? And for magic, out of all things! And what  _was_  a fomorroh? What did this stranger have to do with any of it? Arthur let out a long breath, trying to settle on a question to start with. "How long?" he demanded. "How long was I under the control of this 'fomorroh,' or whatever it's called?"

Gaius shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know, Sire. If-"

"Five days, at least," interjected the stranger. In response to a questioning look by Gaius, he said, "He doesn't remember summoning me here, and I was called for five days ago."

Gaius nodded slowly and turned back to Arthur. "And Arthur, I'm afraid to say you're not completely free of the fomorroh's influence just yet."

" _What?_ "

"Don't touch the back of your neck," Gwaine said quickly. Of course, Arthur brought his hand to rub the back of his neck, feeling his stomach churn as he felt a cold lump under his skin.

Arthur screwed his eyes shut. "Someone explain to me what the  _hell_  is going on."

It was the low voice of the stranger who answered, sounding coldly analytical. "A shapeshifter named Marian has killed three people in the past five nights. During all this, she was controlling you through the use of a magical creature called a fomorroh."

Arthur wrinkled his nose and turned to look at the man. "Who are you, again?"

The man gave a small bow. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective."

Arthur swung his legs off the side of the table. "I've heard of you before."

The man's eyes flicked up and down Arthur's person. "From whom?"

"I can't remember."

"You must. It may be important."

Arthur raised his eyebrows and looked at Gaius, who shrugged.

"Some sort of council, probably," said Arthur. "I think a noblewoman approached me afterwards."

"A noblewoman? Whom?"

"I didn't recognize her. She was dressed very finely, though, I can tell you that. She must have been at the meeting with the rest of us."

"Are you certain? Do you remember her saying something at the meeting?"

Arthur paused for a long while. "Now I'm not so sure she was there during the meeting after all. Just after. She was milling with everyone in the courtyards just outside this castle, as all the guests got into their carriages."

"What carriage did she get into?"

Arthur was getting more irritated with each question. "I did not see."

"You did not see which carriage? Or you did not see her get into a carriage at all?"

Arthur leapt to his feet. "Damn you! How am I supposed to remember?"

Sherlock grabbed him by the collar. Arthur forgot to call his authority as king as the man's cold eyes stared at him unwaveringly.

"Which one was it?" Sherlock demanded.

Arthur ripped loose his collar but answered the question, nonetheless, "I didn't see her get into any sort of carriage. She just disappeared into the crowd and was gone."

"When?" Sherlock continued to fire his questions in rapid succession.

Arthur murmured some sort of profanity under his breath. "I don't know. . . . Perhaps a year ago."

Sherlock finally paused. Arthur took the opportunity to ask a question of his own, "Why did I think Merlin had magic?"

"John accused him. He must have been confused. He can be that way sometimes."

"John?"

"My associate."

Sherlock stepped backward with the words, and his knee gave way beneath him. He managed to regain his balance, although his face was pale and tense.

"What was that?" Arthur demanded.

"Nothing," grunted Sherlock, noticeably standing on one leg. Arthur's gaze traveled down to the man's ankle.

Gaius moved forward quickly and guided Sherlock to the table like a mother hen. He lifted Sherlock's leg onto the table and rolled up his pant leg. Gaius' jaw fell open and he looked angrily up at the detective's pale face.

"This is nearly broken! When did this happen?"

Sherlock seemed to smile faintly. "Last night."

Gaius was already gathering supplies and tearing bandages. " _Last night. . ._  How?"

"I fell into a well. Rather, I was  _pushed_."

"Pushed!" Gaius prepared to set the ankle, and Sherlock's face paled further.

"By Marian. I'm trying to figure out why she didn't just kill me while she had the chance."

Gwaine moved in closer. "Why would she attack you in the first place?"

Sherlock smiled faintly again, but he was lost in his thoughts.

"There," said Gaius, stepping back from Sherlock. "Walk lightly on it. I wish I could keep you laid up, but I don't think that would be a realistic expectation."

"Who is Marian? Is she the one using the fomorroh on me?" Arthur cut himself off. "Gaius, what are you doing?"

Gaius was pacing in front of his layers of dusty bookshelves, running his fingers along their spines. "It must be here somewhere. . . Ah." Gaius pulled a thick book down and opened it on the table. He traced his finger in the book. "Arthur, an enchantress uses the fomorroh to give her victims a single goal. When the fomorroh wasn't numbed in you, that goal was the only thing driving your controlled mind."

"But if our enchantress is a shapeshifter, why wouldn't she just pretend to be Arthur, and forget the fomorroh altogether?" asked Gwaine.

"It would be too difficult to not be suspicious," spoke Sherlock. "A better question would be why she used one on Julia."

"Julia?" asked Arthur.

"Marian controlled her by the fomorroh as well, except only to put a fomorroh in you. Julia, under Marian's enchantment, delivered candles to your room, then cut open your neck and put the fomorroh inside."

"Why?"

"That's what I mean. Why didn't she just do it herself, shapeshifted?"

Arthur shivered and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "You're right, though. I do remember someone coming into my room, that afternoon, when I was changing. I assumed it was Merlin."

"Afternoon?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. It was before a meeting at the round table."

Sherlock nodded, succumbing again to his thoughts.

"Too bad you can't remember anything after that," Gwaine said gruffly.

Gaius agreed. "And here it says that the enchantress can change the goal once the fomorroh is inside the victim. So, Sire, you could have had any number of goals by this point, but there's no telling what any of them were."

"Well, I can be sure of one. She must have had me hire Sherlock. I would never have hired him on my own, even if I'd thought of him." Arthur considered adding, "no offense," but Sherlock did not look like one for formalities.

Gwaine scoffed. "Why would she want someone to solve her murders?"

Sherlock was sitting on the table at this point, frozen in deep thought. "Of course she wouldn't," he murmured, barely audible. He steepled his fingers underneath his nose and closed his eyes.

"What's that?" Arthur stuck his neck forward a bit with the question.

When Sherlock didn't answer, Gaius slowly spoke up, "Sire, until we have the murderer in our hands, or the fomorroh has been destroyed-"

"What? Can't you just take it out of my neck right now and be done with it?"

Gaius shook his head. "The beast the fomorroh originated from must be killed, otherwise the head inside you will grow back."

Arthur clasped his palm to the back of his neck and gulped. "That's revolting."

Gaius shrugged. "Revolting or no, it's the truth. And until the mother-beast is killed, we can't stand the risk of you walking around under Marian's control."

"What do you want me to do, admit myself to the dungeon?" Arthur joked, letting forth a scornful laugh.

His smile faded as Gaius and Gwaine exchanged a serious glance. Arthur's eyes locked with Gaius' and the old man's eyebrow raised.

Arthur huffed. "You can't be serious."

* * *

Merlin let out a long breath. He sat in the corner of his cell, his back pressed up against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see John, pacing back and forth in the cell next to his, occasionally sighing in frustration and shaking his head. They had been cooped up in here for what had to have been at least half a day by now, and he sincerely hoped that Sherlock was having more success than they, wherever he was and whatever he was doing.

Merlin had considered using his magic to pick the lock or knock out the guard, but that really wouldn't have looked good for him in the long run.

Arthur had finally found him out. Honestly, he always knew the day was coming, but he always thought—and hoped—it would be  _Arthur_  reacting to it, not some creature inside him.

Merlin felt his heart sink in his chest when he heard heavy footsteps stomping quickly down the stone stairs. John stopped pacing, exchanging a glance with Merlin before turning his attention to the dungeon entrance. Merlin pressed his mouth in a thin line when he managed to pick up the sound of Arthur's gait. With the fomorroh in control, he had a feeling that he wouldn't be sentenced lightly.

Arthur burst into the corridor, panting. He whipped around to face the guard and demanded, "Give me the keys."

The guard, looking hesitant, placed the keys into Arthur's hand. The king then rushed over to Merlin's cell, and Merlin pushed himself to his feet. "Arthur?" he asked warily as Arthur fiddled with the lock.

"Merlin," Arthur began. "Please tell me you knew right away that I was under the control of some kind of witch these past few days."

Merlin's heart thudded in relief and his mouth widened in a smile. But upon receiving a stern glare from Arthur, Merlin cleared his throat. "Um, it depends on your definition of right away."

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"It was me that figured out it was a fomorroh, for the record!" he exclaimed as the door swung open. To his surprise, once Merlin strolled out, Arthur quickly walked inside the cell to replace him. Merlin frowned, turning back to face the king. "What're you doing?"

Arthur tossed the keys towards him, and Merlin ducked as they flew over his head and nearly jumped in surprise when Gwaine caught them behind him. The knight looked at Merlin with a wide grin. Merlin gaped. " _Gwaine?_  Why- Where have you-"

"Also under the control of a witch. Same one, I'm pretty sure. Not a fomorroh, though," Gwaine assured quickly as he turned to John's cell, twisting the keys in the lock. John didn't hesitate to walk out, looking at Gwaine and Arthur with a furrowed brow. "Where's Sherlock?"

Gwaine's eyebrows raised. "Maybe he got caught up by his ankle."

"So he was with you?" John asked worriedly. "And what about his ankle?" Merlin realized they hadn't seen John's friend since before they'd visited Gwaine at the tavern.

"Marian pushed me into a well," came the low voice of the detective from the stairway.

John's eyes shot up, and Merlin saw relief flood over the man's face. Merlin knew the feeling, looking over at Arthur. When Merlin looked over at the stairway, however, he started. Two figures stood in the torchlight.

Merlin squinted, trying to remember the name of the disheveled young man standing next to Sherlock. "Garman?"

"There will be time to explain later," Sherlock said as he approached the cell Arthur stood inside. Merlin's gaze was fixed on the villager for a moment longer, until he heard the king say, "Listen."

Merlin turned around to look at Arthur, leaning closer as he relayed his instructions.

"I don't know how much time I have before the fomorroh gains back control, so take note of my orders now. I won't be able to give them later."

He made eye contact with Merlin, then slammed the prison bars closed in front of himself.

"Arthur!" exclaimed Merlin.

"Don't let me out of here until the fomorroh is dead, no matter what I say," said Arthur, his voice commandeering. "It won't be me talking. And your first priority will be stopping the shapeshifter—I don't want anyone else murdered. Detain her if you can, but kill her if you must. Do you hear me?"

Merlin uttered, "Yes, Sire," without a second thought, and heard several identical phrases from those around him.

Arthur's hand drifted to the back of his neck, unconsciously rubbing the lump under his skin. "Oh, and kill the original mother-beast—the fomorroh—as soon as you can. I really don't want to be stuck like this any longer than I have to be."

Merlin smiled and caught Arthur's eye. It felt wonderful to have Arthur's true self looking back at him.

"That too much for you to remember, Merlin?"

The corner of Merlin's mouth turned up. "Don't worry, Sire, I won't forget to keep you locked in the dungeon. I've been wanting to do it for ages, haven't I?"

Arthur made a swipe at Merlin through the bars, but he was out of his reach. He settled for a stern look.

"Should I keep guard, Arthur?" asked Gwaine.

Sherlock turned around and answered instead. "No. I have a plan, and you are a part of it."

"A plan? Since when?" Arthur asked from his cell.

Sherlock glanced at John. "Oh, a few minutes ago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Along with this chapter, we posted rewrites that have replaced chapters one and two. We didn’t feel like those chapters any longer represented our skills and didn’t want them to be a reader’s first impression of this story. The main events that happen in those chapters are still the same, and you definitely won’t be lost if you don’t go back to read them. However, in our opinion, they’re now written much better, or at least pretty well up to our current standard. 
> 
> We just thought we’d notify you of this change, and extra thanks to you if you go back to reread chapter one and two. However, thanks to all of you for reading this story in general! It’s really cool that we’re able to share it with you.
> 
> We hope you had a merry Christmas or one-of-the-various-other-holidays. See you in 2018!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we said we’d see you in 2018, and we didn’t lie.

John caught up with his limping friend, who was leading the group of men up the stairs. The chains that he had slung over his shoulder clinked with each step he took. “Sherlock?”

“John,” Sherlock stated as if that concluded the matter.

John raised his eyebrows. “Well? This master plan you apparently came up with? Were you planning on sharing it with us, or. . . And what are those for?”

“These are the chains we’re going to use to bind her.”

“So that’s part of the plan?”

“That is the plan.”

John’s eyebrows remained lifted, and he leaned in a bit. “That’s it?”

“Well, besides killing the fomorroh.”

“So your plan is to do exactly what Arthur said.”

“What? Now you want me to defy the direct orders of the king?”

“No, I want you to tell us _how_ we’re going to follow the direct orders of the king.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I was thinking we just. . . tie her up.” Sherlock furrowed his brow. “We outnumber her, don’t we? We have you, me, Garman, Gwaine, Merlin-” he held up the five fingers on his left hand, “-against, let’s see. . . Marian.” He held up his forefinger on his right hand and pretended to weigh the odds against each other.

John frowned. “I’m sorry, _who?_ Is this the same Marian who shoved you in a well?”

“Marie!” John heard Gwaine pipe up from the back. “You know, the bartender. I wonder if she misses me yet.”

John huffed. “Misses you? Since when was everyone on a first-name basis with the shapeshifter?”

“For me? Must be two years by now," said Sherlock.

“Two _what_?”

“The adultery case Mycroft sent me to investigate in Ishbayern. The adultress turned out to be a woman named Helena, whose sister’s name was-”

“Marian,” John realized aloud.

“Quiet. But yes, and when Marian trapped me in the well, she implied that her sister was dead. I-”

“And you think she blames you for that?”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared for a split second but he responded coolly. “She must.”

John plodded along for a few moments. “It adds up. When we visited the tavern, Marian said she’d been visiting her sister the night Edgar was killed, but then later she said Gwaine had shown up at the tavern the same night and had been there ever since.”

Sherlock chuckled. “That was the alibi of the woman who thought she could outsmart me?”

“Indeed.” John suppressed a smirk. “By the way, your boot’s unbuckled.”

“Nice try,” Sherlock responded without missing a beat.

“Worth a shot.”

John felt a push from behind and Garman maneuvered himself between the two and fell into step with Sherlock. John slowed a bit and followed behind them, now next to Merlin.

“You said we’re just going to tie her up, didn’t you?” Garman was asking.

“Yes, that’s the plan,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“I think we should give her what she has coming. She didn’t give Ed- She didn’t give her victims the right to a fair trial.”

John nervously watched Sherlock’s back. He could feel Merlin’s unease reflecting his own from beside him. Before Sherlock could say anything, John grabbed his arm from behind and turned him so they faced each other. The group slowed to a halt.

“Can I talk to you?” John glanced sideways at Garman. “Alone?”

“What?”

John yanked him into a side corridor and said in a lowered voice, “I don’t think it would be a good idea to keep Garman around for this.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock said it as more of a statement than a question.

John glanced over his shoulder and turned further away from the group. “That man is driven by revenge. Do you think he _wouldn’t_ go straight for the kill? He’s a grieving brother. He won’t do himself or us any good by staying here, not in the state he’s in. If you want any justice done here, I say send him home.”

Sherlock blinked. “I still don’t-”

“Listen to me. Two years ago you left loose ends with Marian, and that didn’t turn out so well for you in the long run. You’ve already made yourself look smart here, you’ve already put the pieces together. Now you need to see this one through, and you need to see it through correctly. And to do that, you need to send Garman home.”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to argue, but promptly clamped it shut again as he processed John’s words. He straightened up and gave John a minuscule nod.

“Gwaine,” he called as he stepped out from behind the corner. “You will escort Garman back to his village.”

John stepped out and saw a flash of anger pass over Garman’s face. “What do you mean? You can’t-”

“I can, and I will. I doubt Gaius would encourage any sort of combat for you merely three days after receiving your wounds,” Sherlock said with finality.

Garman’s eyes widened. “But I’m fine!” He glanced over his shoulder to Gwaine for support, but Gwaine just gave him a small shake of his head. Garman clenched his fists at his sides and whipped his head back to look at Sherlock, eyes searching the detective’s face. “Really, I could face her right now if I needed to!”

Gwaine placed a hand on Garman’s shoulder. “Garman-”

Garman shrugged out of his grip and pressed back against the wall. His fingertips tried to grasp the flat surface. “Don’t send me home. I want to fight.”

Gwaine held his hands out in front of him. “We know you do. But a fight’s not what we’re looking for. Now come on.” He jerked his head back and shuffled back a few steps.

Garman’s breath slowed, and for a moment, John was sure he was winding up to lash out. But then a long sigh was dragged out from deep inside Garman’s chest, and he stepped away from the wall. He accompanied Gwaine down the corridor, not before casting Sherlock and John a dark, mournful look.

Even after they were out of sight, the two men’s footsteps echoed through the corridors.

Merlin puffed up his cheeks a bit and let out a long breath. “How about those odds now, Sherlock?”

* * *

John, Sherlock, and Merlin stood looking at the door to the tavern, which was slightly ajar. Its hinges squeaked quietly as a light breeze slithered around it, flapping it against the frame with a thumping sound. The face of the building was washed with the orange glow of the setting sun, and a piercing glare glinted off of the dingy windows. No light emanated from inside.

“It’s strange to see it empty at this time,” said Merlin uneasily.

“It’s not empty. _She’_ s in there,” replied John from beside him.

There was a clinking sound, and Merlin grunted in surprise as Sherlock pressed the loop of chains onto his chest. “We’ll give you some time to enter from the back. Don’t let her get past you.”

Merlin set his jaw, nodded once as he took a quick step backward, and rounded the left corner of the building.

When he was out of sight, John looked at Sherlock. “Ready?”  
  
Sherlock’s face was turned to the ground, eyes closed. “Give him some time.”  
  
A few moments later, Sherlock’s eyes flicked open and he nodded, eyes fixed on the door. Without a second thought, John stepped forward and swung it fully open.

He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dim of the place. He’d gotten two clunking steps onto the wooden floor when a muted “We’re closed!” sounded from behind the counter. Marian stood, bringing herself into view, her eyes preoccupied with something under the counter before they finally looked up at John. Her expression sank to an unreadable mask.

A fireplace from somewhere in the back room glowed on half her face and outlined each black hair. The other half of her head was cast in shadow; merely a silhouette.

“John? What. . .” she trailed off just as John heard footsteps behind him. Sherlock’s shadow spilled into the room, followed by the man himself as he stepped forward to stand beside John.

Marian’s eyes flared and her gaze locked on the detective. A lock of hair fell out of her bun and into her face.

“Back from the dead, I see,” she murmured, nodding to John, but not taking her eyes off of Sherlock.

“No thanks to you,” John growled.

Marian’s gaze passed back and forth between the two. “Oh,” she said quietly. “I see. You’re here to take me away.” She glanced out the window and tightened her jaw, shifting her stance a few inches closer to the back door.

Sherlock’s low voice came from beside John, “Oh. . .” He drew the syllable out, then whispered, “Of _course_.”

Marian glared at him resentfully, like she was considering spitting in his face.

“What was that?” John piped up.

Sherlock chuckled. “She can only shift at night.”

“What do you know, Sherlock Holmes?” Marian snapped defensively, lifting her chin.

“Is that right, Sherlock? Well then-” John stepped forward, meeting Marian’s gaze, “-there’s no chance you’ll come with us willingly?”

She smirked, taking a step back. “Like hell I will.”

John kept his eyes trained on her and opened his mouth to say something to Sherlock, but before he got the chance Marian made a dive for the door behind her. John leaped forward, knocked his hip on the corner of a table, and watched her hand press against the door. _Come on, Merlin. . ._

The door opened from the other side, whipping her back into the counter. Merlin seemed surprised to have hit something and took a moment to lunge forward with the chains as she scrambled around the counter. They hit her leg, rattling up into Merlin’s face.

John shoved past chairs towards her as she fled around the outskirts of the room. Without looking back he yelled to Sherlock, “Stay by the door!”

John tried to grab Marian as she sped past him. He caught hold of her skirt, hearing the sound of tearing cloth and watching her trip forward onto her forearms. She had slipped out of his grip and he moved forward to pin her down.

Marian frantically pulled herself up with the help of a chair, grunting fiercely. She climbed onto the nearest table, clenching the hem of her skirt in her fist. She turned and slammed her heel into John’s chin and he reeled back into the wall.

She hadn’t held anything back. John remembered how ruthlessly those in Ishbayern had fought against each other, and how little he’d wanted to be a part of their skirmishes then. He put a hand to his chin. He wished he didn’t have to be a part of it now, either.

“Sun’s setting fast,” Sherlock reminded them from the front of the tavern.

John grit his teeth. All the more reason to get this over with quickly.

He heard the rattling of chains and saw Merlin grappling with her on top of a table in the back corner. John’s eyes darted to the open door to the back room and made a dash to guard it, just in case.

Marian broke free, her clenched teeth and quick movements reminding John of an angry cat. As she jumped back onto the counter, Merlin swung the chains. They grazed her ankles and hit the chair next to them full-on. Merlin made a face and muttered something under his breath. Marian seemed to trip backwards on nothing, but John knew better.

Marian fell behind the counter, her head crashing into the hanging wine glasses on her way down. John had her pinned to the ground in a matter of seconds, not about to let this go on any longer.

Marian made a last-ditch effort to shake John off before going limp with defeat, letting out a snarl of frustration. Merlin quickly relayed the chains to John to restrain her. Sherlock moved forward with a chair, and as John bound her to it, she didn’t struggle but glared daggers at where Sherlock’s hands gripped her arms.

“I’ll look for the fomorroh,” Merlin said, making his way to the back room.

Marian leaned forward, pulling the chains taught. “You’ll won’t find it-”  
  
“Found it!” came Merlin’s voice, accompanied by the sound of clinking glass. Marian sat back, glowering. John stifled a grin.

There was the pop of a lid, followed by the unmistakable hissing of a snake. John couldn’t make out what Merlin was muttering, but a waft of heat drifted from the open doorway.

Just as John was about to let out a small sigh of relief, Marian started to chuckle softly from beside him. He squinted at her, trying to make out her expression in the dark.

 _The dark_. He locked eyes with Sherlock, who had just come to the same realization.

Marian’s laugh slowly shifted into a growl. John’s eyes widened in horror as her hands grew into black claws. Sherlock tightened his hold on the chains.

“Merlin!” John hollered, “Any minute now!”

“What? What’s happening?”

The transformation traveled up Marian’s arms, her sleeves melding to her flesh, leaving behind iridescent scales and folded, leathery wings. The chains were pulled to their limit, the metal creaking.

A link snapped and John cried out, but the noise was covered up by a loud screech erupting from Marian’s throat. The scales rushed across her chest and up her throat. The transformation elongated her neck and face with grinding and popping sounds until she opened her eyelids and the red slitted eyes of a wyvern glared at John, who had stumbled back into the counter.

Sherlock was knocked back with the chair, and the last of the chains clattered to the floor. Marian’s body lurched to all fours and a whip-like tale swung out behind her.

John clenched his jaw, wide-eyed, and drew his sword. Marian’s gaze darted to it. She grunted and took a nervous step back, her claws leaving drag marks in the wood floor.

Merlin ran back into the room and his gaze locked on the wyvern, who eyed him warily.

“Is that-” started Merlin.

“Yes. Shapeshifter, remember?” grunted John as he rushed forward to swing his blade at Marian’s wing.

She dodged the blow and John’s sword notched into a chair. Marian took one last look at Sherlock, her tail twitching, and darted out the front door, clambering over and between tables.

John sheathed his sword and saw Merlin giving Sherlock a hand up from where he had been lying on the floor, arms held defensively above his head. A sound like billowing sails came from the street and John rushed out to catch a last glimpse of Marian as she disappeared over the rooftops. Merlin and Sherlock skid to a stop behind him.

“Please tell me the fomorroh’s taken care of, Merlin,” said John without turning.

Merlin nodded numbly, his wide eyes still fixed on the sky.

John looked to Sherlock. “Any ideas?”

“Seven,” said Sherlock, “so far. But five of them require a round trip to and from Ishbayern in under an hour.”

“And the other two?” asked John.

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t come down to those.”

John kicked the ground. “Blast.”

“Hold on,” Merlin piped up. “You said in under an hour?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I might be able to do that.”

Sherlock leaned forward, looking somewhere between skeptical and slightly concerned. “ _You_?”

“Well, not me personally. But–” Merlin looked to the horizon, a small smile tugging at his cheek, “–I know a guy.”


End file.
